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The Ridpath Library of, 
Universal Literature 

A Biographical and Bibliographical Summary of the World*i Most 

Eminent Authors* including the Choicest Selection* and 

Masterpieces from their Writings, Comprising 

the Best Features of Many Celebrated 

Compilations, Notably 

flCJ* umt*tp Collection fE$* 36* $u? Collection 




John Clark Ridpatk, AM^ LL.D* 

,^ "0t &eti of M.nfcitxl/' *tc.,t<, 



tv Tit* Lift *( Rxrch," ' Tilt Life of Mark Twain/' " The LU* of KIp4l B t." Of tfet 





a as in fat, man, pang. u Gentian u, French u. 

& as in fate, mane, dale. oi as in oil, Joint, boy. 

I as in far, father, guard, ou as in pound* proud. 

a as in fall, talk, s as in pressure. 

a as in fare. i m in setstyre, 

| as in errant, republican, ch as in German ach y 

e as in met, pen, biess, Scotch toeh, 

as in mete, meet fi Fwch nasalteing n f as 

e as in her, fern. M ! n l f n * en * 

i as in pin, it &mm lhen * 

I as in pine, fight, file, M S ^ allish * 

o as in not, on, frog. c m ' m Hamburg. 

& as in note, poke, ROOT. * denotes a primary, ** a 

o as in move, spoon. secondary accent (A see* 

6 as in nor, .song, off* ondary accent is not 

as in valor, actor, idiot, marked if it its regular 

u as in tub. interval of two syllables 

fi as m mute, acute* from the primary, or from 

a as to pOL another secondary,) 




CAMQENS (kam* 5 enz) > Louis BE. . * . , . . . 7 

CAMPAN (koflpofi), JEANNE Louis GENBST 16 


CAMPBELL, BARTLEV . . . * , 23 



CAMPBELL, JOHN ... ...., 31 


CAMPJEAN (kam* pi 11), EDMUND, . . 49 

CANDQLLB (koft dol*), fee DE CANXX>LL. 

CANNING (kan ? ing), GKOHCB 51 

CANTON (kan'tAn), WILLIAM..... ., 55 

CANT& (kiiti to'}, CESAHE. , 59 

CAPBL (kap"e!) t THOMAS JOHN 66 

CARDUCCI ( kar dot* chcc) , GtosuJt. , . , , 70 

CAREW (kftrV) f TIIOMAA ,,, , 72 

CAREV (ka* ri), HENRY CHARLES 4 . . . , 77 


CAREY, ROSA NourtiRTTX. , , % 

CAKLBN (kariftn'), EMILIA FLYGARB.................. 94 

CAHUSTON (kar!'t5n) WILL 99 



CASLYLE (kiir 111*), JANE WELSH 117 



CARMAN (kiir' man), WILLIAM BLISS. ................. 176 

CARNBGIB {kiirneg'i), ANDREW. 180 

CARPENTER (Mr' pen lcr) t WILLIAM BEN; AMIN . ....... j86 

CARROLL (ksir'51), LEWIS, /r DODGSON, C. L.. 

CABTWBIQMT (kirt*r!t) WILLIAM...,., 189 

CARUB (Wrtii) t PAUL, ,... 190 

CARY (kt'd) f AUCK.. ....,,. 194 

HJKJTRY Euuticxi.,, , 30 



CARY, PHCRRE , . ....... ..........I,..............*..,. u>4 

CASANOVA DE SEIKHALT (ka&uuYv;* *Ir sin gal'), 

GIOVANNI ..... ,.*..*.**......,...,.,.,.....*.. jit 

CASAS (kii' siis), RARTOLGU& itt LAS . ...... . ..... ,2*4 

CASAUBON (ka sa' hon ; Fr. ka *6 boft ), Is A At, ..... , , , , 217 

CASTELAR (kits til Jar'), KMIMO, . , , , ...... ,,,,,,, ...... ^tg 

CASTIC.UONE (kas u* I y<V ne) BAI^A^AKX. ,,...,,*,.. 124 

CASTLE (kas r ! ), KGERTON ,,,..,,,,,,, ....... .,.,,,,.. 2J^ 


AUSTIN ..,*., ...... , ....... ,...,,,.,..,,,,., 

CATHERWOOD (kaCh' er wild). M AKY H AXtwrxt,, ,,,,,.. 341 

CATUN (kat f Hn), GR08r.t ......,.,.,., ........ , , , . , 245 

CATO (kf td), MARCUS PoiCius PHUMTUS. ,,,,.,..,,.. 248 

CATS (kats)* JAKOB ..... ... , t ........ ...,,,,.,... as 

CAWRIN (kl* win). MAnutoNr jt?tnm, , . . , , ............ 

CAXTON (kaks* l^nX WILLIAM .,...,,*..,.,,.,,,,,,. 
CELUHI (chel If'n*), BNVKtTo, ...,,,,,,,,,,,,,. 
CENTUVRK (cntliv*cr ar nentll-'vlr)* SI^ 

{^r van* t* i Sp. ilirr v&n* te 

*,.. ..... .,,.,.,,,.,,.,.,. 366 

{chail'hern) PAm. AN,, *....,.,,..,, 274 

CHADWICK (chair wik) v Jfmiw WHITE, ,,,,,,,,,,,. ,, ajf* 

(cha'mrrx), TnoMAK,.., .,,.,, ..... , ,.., a^y 

(cham* hcrr), Hoitrr, **.,,.,,,,,,,, 387 
CHAMH&R&, Rmmsr 

CfiAM!HM4,ioK*>Kfr.f(AC (nhcift pn! ywft W Jyac), 

(chan'tng), WIUIAM Hioooiy,....., ,,,..,, 311 

CHAPMAN (chap* mgn I, CIK 

CIIAPOME (sM* pAn), tf Kftrmt Mtttscs ..... ,,,,,,.,.,,, 33(1 

CHAKUX RfiiHWT CKADIKX-K (chftflx rg'Mrt krfl'Ak) t 
jrr^f MuRfiEi, MASY N. *......,.,,.....,.,,,,., 

CHASJ^S* EttZAHicrii RUKVLI, ....,,....,,,,,,,..,.., % i3JI 

CIIASLES (shil) Vtnwt Hunt ^MIOH, .,.,,..,.,,,,..,, i|6 

CiiATRAumitAMti (thft 1 tftbrtoft), i^KANC^ifi Aunv^TK. , ,. m> 

Cii ATFiEi4)TAYum (dint 1 f^ld t*' 16r) HaftAtt ,.,...,.,, 343 

) TNOMA...., ..,,,., ,,.., 3^ 



CHAUCER (cluV ser), GEOFFREY 352 

CHBEVER ( die' ver ) , GEORGR BARREL! , 369 


CHENEY (ch6 r ni) JOHN VANCE. , 375 


CHERBULIEZ (shir 1m lyfi), CHARLES VICTOR 384 

CHESTERFIELD (dies' tcr fcltl), KAKL OF. . , 393 


CIUABRERA ( ke ii br*V ra ) , G AimtKU.o , . 399 

CHILD (child), LYDIA MARIA FRANCLS ......*.. 40^ 

CHILDS (chlldas), GEOROR WILMAM *..... 407 

CHILLINC.WORTH ( chil" ing wcrth) , WILLIAM , . 409 

CHOATE (ch5t ), JfosKPH HOUGR.H , 414 


CHORLEY (chorMi), HENRY FmtEmnLL. 424 


CHRYSOSTOU (kria* 6s torn)* SAINT, * 438 

CHURCHILL (chcrch' il} CHARLES .,,.,..... 445 


CIBBRR ( sib* cr) COLLBY * 453 

CICERO (aift'erA), MARCUS TULLI.US? ......, 456 

CLARE (kldr), JOHN , .,.,.... 474 

CLARENDON (klar' en cIHii) EARL OF. , 478 

CLARETIE (klartft), JULEH ARNAUD ,,* 489 

CLARK (dark), CHAELES HUUUK.. .,..,. 495 


AMOENS, Luis DE, a Portuguese poet ; born at 
Lisbon about 1524; died there, June 10, 1580. 
He was educated at the University of Coimbra. 
On his return to Lisbon he fell in love with Donna 
Caterina de Ataide, a Lady of Honor at Court, for 
which offence he was banished to Santarem. Seeing 
no prospect of restoration to favor he joined an expe- 
dition against the Moors, and lost his right eye in a 
naval battle in the Straits of Gibraltar. He afterward 
went to India, fought against the Mohammedans in 
the Red Sea, and on his return to Goa, wrote a satire 
on the Portuguese authorities in India which caused 
his banishment to Macao. During his residence at 
Macao he wrote his great epic poem, The Lusiads 
(" The Lusitanians "), the leading subject of which is 
the voyage of Vasco da Gama in 1497, when he doubled 
the Cape of Good Hope, thus making known the 
existence of an ocean passage between Europe and 

After shipwreck, in which Camoens lost all his pos- 
sessions except his poem, after imprisonment and other 
vicissitudes, he returned to Lisbon, and succeeded in 
publishing The Lusiads,, which he dedicated to the 



young King Sebastian. It attracted much attention, 
but he was unrewarded except by a small pension, 
which was withdrawn on the death of Sebastian. The 
remainder of Camoens's life was passed in obscurity 
and poverty, of which his lyric poems often make com- 
plaint. He died in a hospital, depending on charity for 
his very winding-sheet; and when, at last, his country 
sought to honor him with a monument, it was not 
without difficulty that his grave was discovered. 


But at this moment, while they ready stand, 
Behold the master, watching o'er the sky. 

The whistle blows; the sailors, every hand, 
Starting, awaken; and on deck they fly. 

And as the wind increased he gave command, 
In lowering foresails all their strength to ply; 

"Alert! alert! from yon black cloud," he cries, 

" That hangs above, the wind begins to rise." 

But, ere the foresails are well gathered in, 
A vast and sudden storm around them roar'd; 

" Strike sail ! " the master shouts amidst the din, 
" Strike, strike the mainsail, lend all hands aboard ! " 

But the indignant winds the fight begin, 
And, joined in fury ere it could be lowered, 

With blustering noise the sail in pieces rend, 

As if the world were coming to an end. 

With this the sailors wound the heaven with cries, 

From sudden terror and disunion blind; 
For, sails all torn, the vessel over lies, 

And ships a mass of water in the wind; 
"Cast overboard," the master's order flies; 

" Cast overboard, together, with a mind ! 
Others to work the pumps! no slackening! 
The pumps, and quick! for we are foundering." 


The soldiers, all alive, now hasten fast 
To work the pumps, but scarcely had essayed 

When the dread seas, in which the ship was cast, 
So tossed her that they all were prostrate laid; 

Three hardy, powerful soldiers, to the last, 
To guide the wheel but fruitless efforts made; 

With cords on either side it must be bound, 

For force and art of man but vain are found. 

The winds were such that scarcely could they show 
With greater force or greater rage around 

Than if it were their purpose, then, to blow 
The mighty tower of Babel to the ground. 

Upon the aspiring seas, which higher grow, 
Like a small boat the valiant ship doth bound: 

Exciting wonder that on such a main 

She can her striving course so long sustain. 

The valiant ship, with Gama's brother Paul, 
With mast asunder snapped by wind and wave, 

Half under water lies; the sailors call 
On Him Who once appeared the world to save; 

Nor less, vain cries from Coelho's vessel all 
Pour on the air, fearing a watery grave, 

Although the master had such caution shown, 

That ere the wind arose the sails were down. 

Now rising to the clouds they seem to go, 
O'er the wild waves of Neptune borne on end; 

Now to the bowels of the depths below, 
It seems to all their senses they descend; 

Notus and Auster, Boreas, Aquilo, 
The very world's machinery would rend; 

While flashings fire the black and ugly night, 

And shed from pole to pole a dazzling light 

The halcyon birds their notes of mourning told 
Along the roaring coast, sad scene of woe, 

Calling to mind their agonies of old, 
Which to the like tempestuous waves they owe; 


The amorous dolphins, all, from sports withhold, 

And to their ocean-caves' recesses go, 
Such storms and winds unable to endure, 
Which, e'en in refuge, leave them not secure. 

Never such living thunderbolts were framed 
Against the Giants' fierce, rebellious pride, 

By the great, sordid forger, who is famed 
His step-son's brilliant arms to have supplied; 

Nor ever 'gainst the world such lightnings flamed, 
Hurled by the mighty Thunderer far and wide, 

In the great flood which spared those only two, 

Who, casting stones, did humankind renew. 

How many mountains, then, were downward borne 
By the persistent waves that 'gainst them strove : 

How many aged trees were upward torn 
By fury of wild winds that 'gainst them drove ! 

But little dreamed their roots that, thus forlorn, 
They e'er would be reversed toward heaven above, 

Nor the deep sands that seas such power could show, 

As e'en to cast them upward from below ! 

The Lusiads; translation of AUBERTIN. 


Now prosperous gales the bending canvas swelled; 
From these rude shores our fearless course we held, 
Beneath the glistening wave the god of day 
Had now five times withdrawn the parting ray, 
When o'er the prow a sudden darkness spread, 
And slowly floating o'er the mast's tall head 
A black cloud hovered ; nor appeared from far 
The moon's pale glimpse, nor faintly twinkling star; 
So deep a gloom the lowering vapor cast, 
Transfixed with awe, the bravest stood aghast. 
Meanwhile a hollow, bursting roar resounds, 
As when hoarse surges lash their rocky mounds; 
Nor had the blackening wave, nor frowning heaven, 
The wonted signs of gathering tempest given. 
Amazed we stood. " O thou, our fortune's guide, 


Avert this omen, mighty God." I cried. 

"Or through forbidden climes adventurou j strayed, 

Have the secrets of the deep surveyed, 

Which these wild solitudes of seas and sky 

Were doomed to hide from man's unhallowed eye? 

Whatever this prodigy, it threatens more 

Than midnight tempests and the mingled roar 

Where sea and sky combine to rock the marble shore/' 

I spoke; when, rising through the darkened air, 
Appalled, we saw an hideous phantom glare; 
High and enormous o'er the flood he towered. 
And 'thwart our way with sullen aspect lowered. 
An earthly paleness o'er his cheeks was spread; 
Erect uprose his hairs of withered red; 
Writhing to speak, his sable lips disclose, 
Sharp and disjoined, his gnashing teeth's blue rows; 
His haggard beard flowed quivering on the wind, 
Revenge and horror in his mien combined; 
His clouded front, by withering lightnings scarred, 
The inward anguish of his soul declared ; 
His red eyes, glowing from their dusky caves, 
Shot livid fires ; far echoing o'er the waves 
His voice resounded, as the caverned shore 
With hollow groan repeats the tempest's roar. 
Cold-gliding horrors thrilled each hero's breast; 
Our bristling hair and tottering knees confessed 
Wild dread ; the while, with visage ghastly, wan, 
His black lips trembling, thus the fiend began : 

" you, the boldest of the nations fired 
By daring pride, by lust of fame inspired ; 
Who, scornful of the bowers of sweet repose, 
Through these my waves advance your fearless prows, 
Regardless of the lengthening watery way, 
And all the storms that own my sovereign sway; 
Who, 'mid surrounding rocks and shelves, explore 
Where never hero braved my rage before; 
Ye sons of Lusus, who with eyes profane 
Have viewed the secrets of my awful reign, 


Have passed the bounds which jealous Nature drew 

To veil her secret shrine from mortal view: 

Hear from my lips what direful woes attend, 

And, bursting, soon shall o'er your race descend ! 

With every bounding keel that dares my rage 

Eternal war my rocks and storms shall wage; 

The next proud fleet that through my drear domain 

With daring search, shall hoist the streaming vane 

That gallant navy, by my whirlwinds tossed, 

And raging seas, shall perish on my coast; 

Then he who first my secret reign descried 

A naked corse wide floating o'er the tide 

Shall drive. Unless my heart's full raptures fail, 

O, Lusus, oft shalt thou thy children wail ; 

Each year thy shipwrecked sons shalt thou deplore, 

Each year thy sheeted masts shall strew my shore. 

" With trophies plumed behold a hero corne ! 
Ye dreary wilds, prepare his yawning tomb ! 
Though smiling fortune blessed his youthful morn, 
Though glory's rays his laurelled brows adorn, 
Full oft though he beheld with sparkling eye 
The Turkish moons in wild confusion fly, 
While he, proud victor, thundered in the rear 
All, all his mighty fame shall vanish here : 
Quiloa's sons, and thine, Mombaze, shall see 
Their conqueror bend his laurelled head to me; 
While, proudly mingling with the tempest's sound, 
Their shouts of joy from every cliff rebound. 

" The howling blast, ye slumbering storms prepare ! 
A youthful lover and his beauteous fair 
Triumphant sail from India's ravaged land; 
His evil angel leads him to my strand. 
Through the torn hulk the dashing waves shall roar, 
The shattered wrecks shall blacken all my shore. 
Themselves escaped, despoiled by savage hands, 
Shall naked wander o'er the burning sands, 
Spared by the waves far deeper woes to bear, 
Woes even by me acknowledged with a tear/ 


Their infant race, the promised heirs of joy, 
Shall now no more a hundred hands employ; 
By cruel want, beneath the parents' eye, 
In these wide wastes their infant race shall die. 
Through dreary wilds, where never pilgrim trod, 
Where caverns yawn and rocky fragments nod, 
The hapless lover and his bride shall stray, 
By night unsheltered, and forlorn by day. 
In vain the lover o'er the trackless plain 
Shall dart his eyes, and cheer his spouse in vain; 
Her tender limbs and breast of mountain snow, 
Where ne'er before intruding blast might blow, 
Parched by the sun, and shrivelled by the cold 
Of dewy night, shall he, fond man, behold. 
Thus, wandering wide, a thousand ills overpassed, 
In fond embraces they shall sink at last; 
While pitying tears their dying eyes overflow. 
And the last sigh shall wail each other's woe. 
Some few, the sad companions of their fate, 
Shall yet survive, protected by my hate, 
On Tagus* banks the dismal tale to tell 
How, blasted by my frown, your heroes fell/' 

He paused, in act still further to disclose 
A long, a dreary prophecy of woes; 
When, springing onward, loud my voice resounds, 
And 'midst his rage the threatening shade confounds: 
" What art thou, horrid form, that rid'st the air ? 
By heaven's eternal light, stern fiend, declare ! " 
His lips he writhes, his eyes far round he throws, 
And from his breast deep, hollow groans arose; 
Sternly askance he stood: with wounded pride 
And anguish torn, " In me, behold," he cried, 
While dark-red sparkles from his eyeballs rolled, 
" In me, the Spirit of the Cape behold 
That rock by you the Cape of Tempests named, 
By Neptune's rage in horrid earthquakes framed, 
When Jove's red bolts o'er Titan's offspring flamed 
With wide-stretched piles I guard the pathless strand t 
And Afric's southern mound, unmoved, I stand: 


Nor Roman prow, nor daring Tyrian oar, 

E'er dashed the white wave foaming to my shore; 

Nor Greece nor Carthage ever spread the sail 

On these my seas to catch the trading gale; 

You, you alone, have dared to plough my main, 

And with the human voice disturb my lonesome reign/ 1 

He spoke, and deep a lengthened sigh he drew, 
A doleful sound, and vanished from the view: 
The frightened billows gave a rolling swell, 
And distant far prolonged the dismal yell; 
Faint and more faint the howling echoes die, 
And the black cloud dispersing leaves the sky. 
High to the angel host, whose guardian care 
Had ever round us watched, my hands I rear, 
And heaven's dread King implore "As o'er our head 
The fiend dissolved, an empty shadow, fled; 
So may his curses by the winds of heaven 
Far o'er the deep, their idle sport, be driven ! " 

The Lusiads; translation of MICKLE, 


Spirit beloved! whose wing so soon hath flown 

The joyless precincts of this earthly sphere, 
Now is yon heaven eternally thine own 

Whilst I deplore thy loss, a captive here. 
0, if allowed in thy divine abode 

Of aught on earth an image to retain, 
Remember still the fervent love which glowed 

In my fond bosom, pure from every stain ! 
And if thou deem that all my faithful grief, 
Caused by thy loss and hopeless of relief, 

Can merit thee, sweet native of the skies 
0, ask of Heaven, which called thee soon away, 
That I may join thee in those realms of day, 

Swiftly as thou hast vanished from mine eyes 1 
Translation of MRS. HEMANS, 



While, pressed with woes from which it cannot flee, 
My fancy sinks, and slumber seals my eyes, 
Her spirit hastens in my dreams to rise, 

Who was in life but as a dream to me. 

O'er the drear waste, so wide no eye can see 
How far its sense-evading limit lies, 
I follow her quick step ; but, ah, she flies ! 

Our distance widening by fate's stern decree. 

" Fly not from me, kind shadow ! " I exclaim ; 

She, with fixed eyes, that her soft thoughts reveal, 
And seemed to say, " Forbear thy fond design " 
Still flies. I call her, but her half -formed name 

Dies on my faltering tongue ; I wake, and feel 
Not e'en one short delusion can be mine. 

Translation of HAYLEY. 


Beneath this monumental stone enshrined, 
There lies this world's most noble cynosure, 
Whom death of sheerest envy did immure, 

Stealing the life, untimely and unkind; 

According no respect to that refined 

Sweetness of light, which e'en the night obscure 
Turned to clear day, and whose refulgence pure 

The brightness of the sun left far behind. 
Thou, cruel Death, wast bribed by the sun. 

To save his beams from hers who brighter burned. 
And by the moon, that faded quite away. 

How earnest thou such mighty power to own? 

And, owning it, why hast so quickly turned 
The great light of trie world to this cold clay ? 

Translation of AUBERTIN. 


EST, a French educator and author; born at 
Paris, October 6, 1752; died at Mantes, May 
16, 1822. She was a sister of Edmond Genest, French 
ambassador to the United States in 1792; was well 
educated under her father's care, and at the age of 
fifteen was appointed reader to the princesses, the 
daughters of Louis XV. Soon after her marriage she 
was nominated first lady of the bed-chamber by Marie 
Antoinette, in whose service she continued until forci- 
bly separated from her in 1792. After the fall of 
Robespierre she established a school at St. Germain. 
Napoleon appointed her superintendent of the academy 
at Ecouen for the education of the daughters and 
sisters of members of the Legion of Honor. When, 
at the restoration of the Bourbons, this school was 
abolished, Madame Campan retired to Mantes, where 
she spent the remainder of her life. She wrote 
Memoir e$ sur la Vie Pri-vee de Marie Antoinette; Jour- 
nal Anecdotique; Correspondence inedite avec la Reine 
Hortense; a treatise, De ^Education des Femmes, and 
several small didactic works. 


Fashion continued its fluctuating progress; and head- 
dresses, with their superstructure of gauze, flowers, and 
feathers, became so lofty that the women could not find 
carnages high enough to admit them; and they were often 
seen either stooping or holding their heads out of the 
windows. Others knelt down, in order to manage these 
elevated objects of ridicule with less danger. Innumer- 
able caricatures, exhibited in all directions, and some of 
which artfully gave the features of the Queen, attacked 
the extravagance of fashion, but with very little effect 


It changed only, as is always the case, through the influ- 
ence of inconstancy and time. 

The Queen's toilet was a masterpiece of etiquette; 
everything was done in a prescribed form. Both the 
dame d'honneur and the dame d'atours usually attended 
and officiated, assisted by the first femme de chambre and 
two ordinary women. The dame d'atours put on the 
petticoat, and handed the gown to the Queen. The dame 
d'honneur poured out the water for her hands, and put on 
her linen. When a Princess of the royal family happened 
to be present while the Queen was dressing, the dame 
d'honneur yielded to her the latter act of office, but still 
did not yield it directly to the Princess of the blood: in 
such a case the dame d'honneur was accustomed to present 
the linen to the first femme de chambre >, who, in her turn, 
handed it to the Princess of the blood. Each of these 
ladies observed these rules scrupulously as affecting her 
rights. One winter's day it happened that the Queen, who 
was entirely undressed, was just going to put on her shift ; 
I held it ready unfolded for her; the dame d'honneur 
came in, slipped off her gloves, and took it. A scratching 
was heard at the door; it was opened, and in came the 
Duchesse d'Orleans: her gloves were taken off, and she 
came forward to take the garment; but as it would have 
been wrong in the dame d'honneur to hand it to her, she 
gave it to me, and I handed it to the Princess. More 
scratching. It was Madame the Comtesse de Provence; 
the Duchesse d'Orleans handed her the Knen. All this 
while the Queen kept her arms crossed tipon her bosom, 
and appeared to feel cold; Madame observed her uncom- 
fortable situation, and, merely laying down her handker- 
chief without taking off her gloves, she put on the linen, 
and in doing so, knocked the Queen's cap off. The Queen 
laughed to conceal her impatience, but not until she had 
muttered several times, "How disagreeable! how tire- 

All this etiquette, however inconvenient, was suitable 
to the royal dignity, which expects to find servants in 
all classes of persons, beginning even with the brothers 
and sisters of the monarch. 

VOL. V. 2 


Speaking here of etiquette, I do not allude tD> majestic 
state, appointed for days of ceremony in all Courts. I 
mean those minute ceremonies that were pursued toward 
our Kings in their inmost privacies, in their hours of 
pleasure, in those of pain, and even during the most re- 
volting of human infirmities. These servile rules were 
drawn up in a kind of code ; they offered to a Richelieu, a 
La Rochefoucauld, and a Duras, in the exercise of their 
domestic functions, opportunities of intimacy useful to 
their interests; and their vanity was flattered by customs 
which converted the right to give a glass of water, to put 
on a dress, and to remove a basin, into honorable pre- 
rogatives. . . . 

This sort of etiquette, which led our Princes to be 
treated in private as idols, made them in public martyrs 
to decorum. Marie Antoinette found in the Chateau of 
Versailles a multitude of established customs which ap- 
peared to her insupportable. . . . One of the customs 
most disagreeable to the Queen was that of dining every 
day in public. Maria Leczinska [Queen of Louis XV.] 
had always submitted to this wearisome practice; Marie 
Antoinette followed it as long as she was Dauphmess. 
The Dauphin dined with her, and each branch of the 
family had its public dinner daily. The ushers suffered 
all decently dressed people to enter: the sight was the 
(delight of persons from the country. At the dinner-hour 
there were none to be met upon the stairs but honest folk, 
who, after having seen the Dauphiness take her soup, went 
to see the Princes eat their bouilli, and then ran them- 
selves out of breath to behold Mesdames at their dessert. 
^Private Life of Marie Antoinette. 


The royal family occupied a small suit of apartments 
consisting of four cells formerly belonging to the ancient 
monastery of the Feuillans. In the first were the men 
who had accompanied the King: the Prince de Poix, the 
Baron 'Aubier, M. de Saint Pardou, equerry to Madame 
Elizabeth, MM. de Goguelat, de Chantilly, and de Hue. 
In the second we found the King ; he was having his hair 


dressed; he took two locks of it, and gave one to my 
sister and one to me. We offered to kiss his hand; he 
opposed it, and embraced us without saying anything. In 
the third was the Queen, in bed and in indescribable afflic- 
tion. We found her accompanied only by a stout woman, 
who appeared tolerably civil; she was the Keeper of the 
Apartments. She waited upon the Queen, who as yet had 
none of her own people about her. Her Majesty stretched 
out her arms to us, saying, " Come, unfortunate women ; 
come and see one still more unhappy than yourselves, since 
she has been the cause of all your misfortunes. We are 
ruined," continued she; "we have arrived at that point 
to which they have been leading us for three years, 
through all possible outrages ; we shall fall in this dreadful 
revolution, and many others will perish after us. All 
have contributed to our downfall; the reformers have 
urged it like mad people, and others through ambition, 
for the wildest Jacobin seeks wealth and office, and the 
mob is eager for plunder. There is not one lover of his 
country among all this infamous horde. The emigrant 
party had their intrigues and schemes; foreigners sought 
to profit by the dissensions of France; every one had a 
share in our misfortunes." 

The Dauphin came in with Madame and the Marquise 
de Tourzel. On seeing them the Queen said to me, 
" Poor children ! how heart-rending it is, instead of hand- 
ing down to them so fine an inheritance, to say it ends 
with us ! " She afterward conversed with me about the 
Tuileries and the persons who had fallen, she conde- 
scended also to mention the burning of my house. I 
looked upon that loss as a mischance, which ought not to 
dwell upon her mind, and I told her so. ... I asked 
the Queen what the ambassadors from foreign Powers 
had done under existing circumstances? She told me that 
they could do nothing; and that the wife of the English 
ambassador had just given her a proof of the personal 
interest she took in her welfare by sending her linen for 
her son. I informed her that, in the pillaging of my 
house, all my accounts with her had been thrown into the 
Carrousel, and that every sheet of my month's expendi- 


ture was signed by her, sometimes leaving four or five 
inches of blank paper above her signature, a circumstance 
which rendered me very uneasy, from an apprehension 
that an improper use might be made of those signatures. 
She desired me to demand admission to the Committee of 
General Safety, and to make this declaration there. - I 
repaired there instantly and found a deputy with whose 
name I have never become acquainted. After hearing 
me he said that he would not receive my deposition; 
that Marie Antoinette was now nothing more than any 
other Frenchwoman; and that if any of those detached 
papers bearing her signature should be misapplied, she 
would have, at a future period, a right to make a com- 
plaint, and 'to support her declaration by the facts which 
I had just related. The Queen regretted having sent me, 
and feared that she had, by her very caution, pointed out 
a method of fabricating forgeries which might be danger- 
ous to her: then again she exclaimed, " My apprehensions 
are as absurd as the step I made you take. They need 
nothing more for our ruin ; all has been told." 

I still see in imagination, and shall always see, that 
narrow cell at the Feuillans, hung with green paper, that 
wretched couch whence the dethroned Queen stretched 
out her arms to us, saying that our misfortunes, of which 
she was the cause, increased her own. There, for the last 
time, I saw the tears, I heard the sobs of her whom high 
birth, natural endowments, and, above all, goodness of 
heart, had seemed to destine to adorn any throne, and be 
the happiness of any people! It is impossible for those 
who lived with Louis XVI. and Marie Antoinette not to 
be fully convinced, while doing justice to the King's 
virtues, that if the Queen had been from the moment of 
her arrival in France the object of the care and affection 
of a Prince of decision and authority, she would have 
only added to the glory of his reign. * Private Life of 
Marie Antoinette. 


CAMPBELL, ALEXANDER, an American theo- 
logian ; born near Ballymena, County Antrim, 
Ireland, September 12, 1788; died at Bethany, 
W. Va., March 4, 1866* He was educated at Glasgow 
University, and in 1809 emigrated to America, follow- 
ing his father, a minister of the Secession church of 
Ireland, who, two years earlier, had settled in Western 
Pennsylvania. The theological views of both father 
and son had changed, and in 1809 they withdrew from 
the Seceders, and founded a new society, whose sole 
guide and rule of faith should be the Bible. Of this 
society, now known as the " Disciples of Christ," or 
" Campbellites," Alexander was the first minister. 
The remainder of his life was spent in disseminating 
his views. He travelled much in the South and South- 
west, preaching, and debating in public with his op- 
ponents. In 1823 he established a monthly magazine, 
first entitled The Christian Baptist., and afterward The 
Millennial Harbinger, which extended to forty-one vol- 
umes and to which he was a prolific contributor. In 
1841 Dr. Campbell founded Bethany College, in Vir- 
ginia, of which he was for a long time president. He 
was the author of many works on religious subjects. 
Among them are The Christian System, or Christianity 
Restored; The Christian Preachers Companion, or In- 
fidelity Refuted by Infidels; Christian Baptism; Popu- 
lar Lectures and Addresses, and a Life of Thomas 


Let us not, however, lose ourselves or our subject in 
the curious labyrinth of fanciful speculations. The palp- 


able fact is before us. The tablet of human memory Is 
neither a tablet of brass, of stone, nor of flesh; it has 
neither length, breadth, nor thickness; it has neither 
solidity nor gravity; yet are inscribed on it not only the 
words of many languages, but the history of nations, their 
origin, progress, and fall. The actions of their kings 
and their princes, their heroes and their statesmen, their 
philosophers and their sages, their orators and their poets 
with all their arts of war and of peace are recorded 
not only on the same mysterious and unearthly sub- 
stratum, but are repeated many quadrillions of times, and 
yet are clearly legible and unambiguous. 

The art of reading these monuments and inscriptions 
of the past is as mysterious and inexplicable as the art 
of writing upon the same substance and upon the same 
lines, already written over so unspeakably often, the 
scenes and the transactions, the thoughts and the emo- 
tions, of the present. Who of the prosing materialists, 
so profoundly read in the secret operations of nature, 
can explain to us, on their own philosophy, that impon- 
derable, intactible, immeasurable, invisible point, or line, 
or substance, on which can be written, and from which 
can be read, so many millions of ideas and impressions? 
With what curious magnifying microscope shall its 
dimensions or its location be ascertained? If it be a 
lonely pilgrim, wandering from organ to organ having 
neither sympathy, homopathy nor antipathy in common 
with flesh, blood, or bones who* can describe its most 
peculiar personality, or draw out the lineaments of its 
singular physiognomy, that we may distinguish and honor 
it with appropriate regards? 

It is found in the heart, and yet in no part of it. Its 
presence or its absence affects not in the least its dimen- 
sions or its gravity. What a new and sublime chapter 
in intellectual chemistry will the development of this 
singular fact afford! the exposition of the reason why 
one head in the balance, without a single idea, and desti- 
tute of ^ life, will weigh just as much as one of the same 
dimensions, density and solidity having within it life, and 
in legible characters, imprinted, a hundred or thousand 


volumes. Who can survey that curious point, or line, or 
surface on which may be engraven the history of a world 
and the experiences of an eternity itself, too, subject 
to impressions from every sense and from everything, real 
and imaginary, commanded by something called attention, 
and controlled by something called volition? Where now 
the materialist, the skeptic, the atheist? Let them ex- 
patiate on matter, solid, fluid, gaseous, aeriform; let them 
bring their intactible crucibles, their hypothetical labora- 
tories, their imponderable agencies, and distil the quin- 
tessence of that substratum on which are legibly inscribed 
all that is written upon the tomes of an Alexandrian 
Library; let them demonstrate the peculiar attributes, 
essential and accidental, that belong to that nameless sub- 
stance, more durable than marble or brass, and yet of so 
delicate a texture and so fine a surface as to receive the 
most gentle touch of the softest pencil in Fancy's palette 
when portraying upon it the phantoms of some imagina- 
tive scene. 

I presume not to speculate on a subject so incompre- 
hensible. I only affirm the conviction that a more in- 
structive exemplification of the infinite superiority of 
mind to all earthly matter, and a more soul-subduing 
demonstration of the fact that there is a spirit in a man 
composed of no earthly elements, cannot, in my humble 
opinion, be afforded, than are deducible from the phi- 
losophy of memory, and the art of recollecting or reading 
off whatever may have been fairly inscribed on it. Lec- 
tures and Addresses. 

CAMPBELL, BARTLEY, an American journalist 
and dramatist; born at Allegheny City, Pa., 
August 12, 1843 ; died a t Middletown, N. Y., 
July 30, 1888. He began his career as a journalist, 
and in 1868 established the Pittsburg Evening Mail 
In the following year he went to New Orleans, where 


he founded The Southern Magazine. His first drama, 
My Partner (1879), met with great success. This 
was followed by Fairfax; The Galley Slave; Matri- 
mony; Paquita; Siberia; The White Slam, and other 
melodramas. Several of these plays were produced 
m London. Mr. Campbell wrote much for the maga- 
zines and periodicals of his day ; but his writings were 
never collected. He is regarded as "the father of 
American melodrama." 


So! you're all the way from Kansas, 

And knew my Jennie there; 
Well, I'm mighty glad to see you; 

Just take that vacant chair. 
You don't seem much of a stranger, 

Though never here before; 
Jack, take the gentleman's beaver 

And hang it on the door. 

What? five whole days on the journey, 

Comin' by boat and car? 
Good gracious ! Who'd have thought Jennie 

Could ever live so far 
Away from Youhiogheny, 

The farm and mountain blue 
I wouldn't have thought it of her, 

And that's 'twixt me and you. 

You say she's not very lonely; 

Then she don't feel the worst 
What? Jennie has got a baby? 

Why didn't you say that first? 
And now please repeat that over, 

I can't believe my ear; 
Just think my Jennie , a mother, 

Pshaw, now, what's this ? a tear ? 


Here, Jack, run off to the kitchen 

Tell mother to come right quick! 
Let the bakin* go this minute, 

She must not strike a lick 
Till she hears the news from Kansas, 

'Twill make her young again. 
So, you know the little one's mother; 

Here, let us shake again. 

Perhaps you think me foolish 

For making such a row, 
But you must excuse an old man, 

Mind, I'm a grandpa now. 
Well, well, how the years slip by us, 

Silent and swift and sly, 
For all the world like the white cloud 

Drifting along the sky. 

But only in this they differ 

We're going with the years 
Into the harbor of old age, 

Up to the silent piers, 
Where each may discharge his burden, 

And furl his wrinkled sail, 
And thank his heavenly Master 

Who saved him through the gale 

But what's the use of talking, 

I'm fairly busting with joy, 
I'd like to whoop like an Injun; 

You tell me it's a boy? 
And she calls him for her father: 

You see she don't forget 
The old man what uses to nurse her, 

And play "peep" with his "pet." 

There's no use keeping a secret, 
She married 'gainst our will, 

A lad by the name of Jackson, 
Whose father kept the mill. 


I thought he was sort of shiftless 
Though he was big and strong, 

And I told my daughter, kindly, 
He'd never get along. 

I'll not soon forget her answer, 

'Twas spoken like a queen. 
Said she : " I will take the chances, 

Whatever comes between." 
What I said I don't remember, 

My anger did not rest, 
And that night Jennie and Jackson 

Left for the distant West. 

No one can know what I suffered; 

I walked about all day, 
With a face as white as chalk, sir, 

And tried, but could not pray. 
Now a man can't reach his Maker 

With heart so full of scorn 
Against an honest fellow-man, 

Who for some good was born. 

You ask, did I forgive Jennie? 

My precious little kid ! 
Big tears swept away my hate, sir, 

Forgive! Of course I did. 
"Well, old man, I'm that Bill Jackson 

Can't you my face recall ? " 
What! just flip me your fin, my youngster? 

Ah ! now I see it all. 

You'll surely forgive my prattle; 

The hard, hard words I said 
When Jennie and you were courting, 

And after you were wed. 
That baby, way out in Kansas, 

That boy in Tuscaloo, 
Has made me love its big father, 

Now what can't babies do? 


JAMPBELL, GEORGE, a Scottish clergyman ; born 
at Aberdeen, December 25, 1719 ; died March 
31, 1796. He studied law, but abandoned the 
legal for the clerical profession, and in 1746 became 
minister of a parish near Aberdeen. In 1759 he was 
appointed Principal of Marischal College, Aberdeen, 
and in 1771 Professor of Divinity there. A year be- 
fore his death a pension of 300 was granted to him by 
the Crown. His principal works are: A Dissertation 
on Miracles, being an examination of the principles ad- 
vanced by Hume (1762) ; Philosophy of Rhetoric 
(1776); A Translation of the Four Gos f pels (1790), 
and Lectures on Ecclesiastical History, published soon 
after his death. He also published a number of Ser- 
mons. Most of his works have been several times re- 
printed, and a complete edition in six volumes appeared 
in 1840. Campbell's Philosophy of Rhetoric was be- 
gun during his early ministerial career, and consists of 
a series of papers read before the Aberdeen Philosophi- 
cal Society. His work at once took a high place among 
works on the subject, which it still maintains. It is as 
a theologian and scholar, the most cultivated and acute 
that the Church of Scotland has produced, that he will 
be remembered. 


I do not hesitate to affirm that our religion has been 
indebted to the attempts, though not to the intentions, of 
its bitterest enemies. They have tried its strength, in- 
deed; and, by trying, they have displayed its strength 
and that in so clear a light as we could never have hoped, 
without such a trial, to have viewed it in. Let them, 


therefore, write; let them argue; and, when arguments 
fail, let them cavil against religion as much as they 
please. I should be heartily sorry that even in this 
island, the asylum of liberty, where the spirit of Chris- 
tianity is better understood (however defective the in- 
habitants are in the observance of its precepts than in 
any other part of the Christian world; I should I say, 
be" sorry that in this island so great a disservice should 
be done to religion as to check its adversaries in any 
other way than by returning a candid answer to their 
objections. I must at the same time acknowledge that 
I am both ashamed and grieved when I observe any 
friends of religion betray so great a diffidence in the 
goodness of their cause for to this diffidence alone can 
it be imputed as to show an inclination for recurring to 
more forcible methods. The assaults of infidels, I may 
venture to prophesy, will never overturn -our religion. 
They will prove not more hurtful to the Christian system 
if it be allowed to compare small things with the 
greatest than the boisterous winds are said to prove 
to the sturdy oak. They shake it impetuously for a time, 
and loudly threaten its subversion; whilst, in effect, they 
only serve to make it strike its roots the deeper, and 
stand the firmer ever after. Dissertation on Miracles. 

novelist ; born at Lockport, N. Y., July 4, 1839. 
She received her education in the schools of 
Warren, R. L, and in Bloomfield, N. J. She began 
writing for newspapers and magazines at a very early 
age. For several years she studied closely and wrote 
on the subject of the poor in large cities, and on cook- 
ing and general housekeeping from a scientific basis, 


and with special regard to health. In 1886 she con- 
tributed a series of articles to the New York Tribune 
on the Working Women of New York, which was sub- 
sequently published as Prisoners of Poverty. The fol- 
lowing year she visited London, Paris, and some of the 
large cities of Germany and Italy, making observations 
on the working-women of these cities, the results of 
which were later embodied in her Prisoners of Poverty 
Abroad. From 1881 to 1884 she was one of the edi- 
tors of The Continent, a Philadelphia periodical. 
Among her published works are The What-to-do Club 
(1885) ; Miss Melinda's Opportunity (1886) ; Prison- 
ers of Poverty (1887) >" Prisoners of Poverty Abroad 
(1889) ; Darkness and Daylight (1892) ; Dr. Mar- 
tha Scarborough (1893) ; also Anne Bradstreet 
(1892); The Easiest Way in Housekeeping and m 
Cooking (1881) ; In Foreign Kitchens (1894) ; Ameri- 
can Girls 3 Home Book of Work and Play (1895); 
Woman Wage Earners (1893) ; Under Green Apple 
Boughs (1881) ; and Ballantyne, a novel (1901). 


The people moved in a leisurely, altogether un-Ameri- 
can manner, and, as in all fossil communities, each had 
his own form and distinctive peculiarities. For many 
years opposition had been the chief business and chief 
bond of union. Opposition to public schools, to gas, to 
fire companies, and, last and bitterest of all, to the rail- 
road, slow as the people it hoped to carry, and built in 
spite of a cold fury of defiance and remonstrance. The 
fact of its completion brought an influx of city people, 
who expected to carry everything before them but made 
as much real progress as waves against a Holland dyke. 
The village held its own, looking straight over the heads 
>f these audacious foreigners, with their nineteenth-cen- 


tury madness ; and the foreigners, in turn, disgusted with 
the exclusiveness and ancient and fish-like modes of 
thought of the villagers, ceased the useless struggle to 
mingle, and were their own society. 

Beyond the village lay farms, the great market gardens 
for New York, toward which, through the summer and 
fall, heavily loaded wagons of fresh vegetables plodded 
nightly, drawn by steady old horses knowing the road so 
well that their owners could sleep securely two-thirds of 
the way. Dozens of men who drove to the city two or 
three times a week had never explored it beyond Wash- 
ington or Fulton Market, and others, even more con- 
servative, declined to go at all, and dwelling almost 
within the sound of the great Babel knew no more of 
it than of the original Babylon, to which it was in their 
minds, the worthy successor. One ambition possessed 
them all alike: to accumulate money enough to buy a 
square white house in the village, pass the farm over to 
their sons, and end their days in those sacred precincts, 
seen now only on Sundays or in occasional visits to the 
store, where each man, as he eyed the gossiping circle, 
anticipated with a sort of solemn joy the time when his 
heels also should find place on that counter, and his pipe 
lend its quota to the blue cloud through which one barely 
distinguished the smokers. 

One degree lower in the scale were the fishermen on 
the bay, who came inland with clams, oysters, and fish; 
gray, barnacle-like men and women, silent and close- 
mouthed as their own great stand-by, the clam, and not 
to be ranged under any head past or present. About 
them, as about the village life and that of the low-roofed 
farm-houses between, was a suggestion of remote an- 

The most stagnant New England community has its 
strong, vital interests, if in nothing more than the for- 
tunes of the young men and women who leave it to make 
careers. Here nobody left or wanted to leave. All lived 
under a spell of established custom and routine. Seed- 
time and harvest, summer and winter, found them the 
same, and when the uneventful years had brought them 


to the eighties or nineties, people went out quietly like a 
snuffed candle, and were buried without any useless 
mourning and lamenting. Under Green Apple Boughs. 

CAMPBELL, JOHN, a British lawyer, politician, 
and biographer ; born at Springfield, Scotland, 
September 15, 1779; died at London, June 23, 
1861. He was the son of a Scottish clergyman, and 
was destined to the profession of his father, for which 
he had no inclination, but at the age of nineteen went 
to London, where he became a reporter for the Morn- 
ing Chronicle. Meanwhile he studied law, was called 
to the bar in 1806, and in time secured a large practice. 
In 1830, through the aid of a relative, he was returned 
to Parliament for the borough of Stafford, where he 
took a prominent part in the advocacy of several im- 
portant measures. Subsequently he represented other 
constituencies, the last being that of Edinburgh (1834- 
41.) In 1841 he was created a peer, under the title of 
Baron Campbell of St. Andrews, and was made Lord 
Chancellor of Ireland, a position which he held for 
only sixteen days, when his party went out of power, 
and he was forced to resign ; but this brief possession 
entitled him to a retiring pension of 4,000. During 
the next ten years he had no public duties except to 
draw his pension, and take his seat in the House of 
Lords when he was disposed to do so. During this 
period he wrote the series of legal biographies by which 
he is to be remembered. These are: Lives of the 
Lord Chancellors (7 vols., 1845-48) and Lives of the 
Chief Justices of England (2 vols., 1849, to which was 


added a third volume in 1859). These works were 
extravagantly praised at the time of their appearance ; 
and have subsequently been sharply criticised. The 
Encyclopaedia Britannica (pth edition, 1877), after 
dwelling severely upon their manifold defects, is yet 
forced to add, "And yet the work is an invaluable 
repertory of facts, and must endure until it is super- 
seded by something better/' In 1850 Lord Campbell 
was made Chief-Justice of the Queen's Bench ; and in 
1859 received the dignity of Lord Chancellor of Great 
Britain the highest honor which can be attained by a 
member of the legal profession. 


For some days he was afflicted with a dysentery, but 
as soon as he was able to travel he set forward for Lon- 
don, although so much reduced in strength that he could 
hardly support himself on his mule. When his servants 
saw him in such a lamentable plight they expressed their 
pity for him with weeping eyes; but he took them by 
the hand as he rode, and kindly conversed with them. 
In the evening of the third day, after dark, he arrived 
with difficulty at the Abbey of Leicester. The Abbot and 
monks met him at the gates, with many torches. As he 
entered he said, "Father Abbot, I am come to lay my 
weary bones among you." He was immediately carried 
tb his chamber, and put into a bed, from which he never 
rose. This was on Saturday night, and on Monday he 
foretold to his servants, " that by eight of the clock next 
morning they should lose their master, as the time drew 
near that he must depart out of this world." Next morn- 
ing, about seven, when he had confessed to a priest, 
Kingston asked him how he did. " Sir," quoth he, " I 
tarry but the will and pleasure of God to render my 
simple soul into His divine hands. If I had served God 
as diligently as I have done the King, He would not have 
given me over in my gray hairs. Howbeit, this is the 


just reward that I must receive for my worldly diligence 
and pains that I have had to do Him service; only to 
satisfy His main pleasure, not regarding my godly duty. 
. . . Master Kingston, farewell. I can do no more, 
but wish all things to have good success. My time draw- 
eth on fast I may not tarry with you. And forget not, 
I pray you, what I have said, and charged you withal, for 
when I am dead ye shall, peradventure, remember my 
words much better." 

He was then anointed by the Father Abbot, and as the 
clock struck eight he expired. His body was immediately 
laid in a coffin, dressed in his pontificals, with mitre, 
crosses, ring, and pall ; and, lying there all day open and 
barefaced, was viewed by the Mayor of Leicester and the 
surrounding gentry, that there might be no suspicion as 
to the manner of his death. It was then carried into the 
Lady Chapel, and watched, with many torches, all night; 
whilst the monks sung dirges and other devout orisons. 
At six in the morning mass was celebrated for his soul; 
and as they committed the body of the proud Cardinal 
to its last abode, the words were chanted, "Earth to 
earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust ! " No stone was 
erected to his memory; and the spot of his interment is 
unknown. Lives of the Lord Chancellors, Vol. I. 


In 1620 his worldly prosperity was at its height, and 
he seemed in the full enjoyment of almost everything that 
man can desire. He was courted and flattered by all 
classes of the community. The multitude dazzled by 
the splendor of his reputation as a statesman, an orator, 
a judge, a fine writer, a philosopher for a time were 
blind to the faults in his character, and overlooked the 
evil arts by which he had risen. He was on the best 
terms both with the King and the Favorite; and it was 
generally expected that, like his father, he would keep 
his office while he lived. 

He had a villa at Kew, to which he could retire for a 
day in seasons of business; and his vacations he spent 
at Gorhambury, " in studies, arts, and sciences to which, 
VOL. V. 3 


in his own nature, he was most inclined," and in garden- 
ing, '* the purest of human pleasures/' Here, at a cost 
of 10,000, he erected a private retreat, furnished with 
every intellectual luxury, to which he repaired when he 
wished to avoid visitors, except a few choice spirits, 
whom he occasionally selected as the companions of his 
retirement and his lucubrations. 

From thence, in January, 1621, he was drawn, not un- 
willingly, to the King's Court at Theobalds; for there 
he was raised in the Peerage by the title of Viscount 
St. Albans his patent being expressed in the most 
flattering language, particularly celebrating his integrity 
in the administration of justice; and he was, with great 
ceremony, according to the custom of the times, invested 
by the King with his new dignity, Buckingham support- 
ing his robe of state, while his coronet was borne by the 
Lord Wentworttu In answer to a complimentary address 
from the King, he delivered a studied oration, enumerat- 
ing the successive favors he had received from the Crown, 
and shadowing forth the fresh services he was to render, 
in his future career, as evidence of his gratitude. In 
little more than three months from this day he was a 
prisoner in the Tower stripped of his office for con- 
fessed corruption and condemned to spend the remain- 
dei of his days in disgrace and penury. Lives of the 
Lord Chancellors, Vol. II. 


It is easy to point out faults in the History of the Re- 
bellion: its redundancies, its omissions, its inaccuracies, 
its misrepresentations, its careless style, and its imme- 
thodical arrangement. But of all history, contemporary 
history is the most valuable; and of contemporary his- 
tories that is to be preferred which is written by one 
who took part in the events related ; and of all such con- 
temporary histories, in our own or any other language, 
this great work is the most to be admired, for graphic 
narration of facts, for just exposition of motives, and for 
true and striking delineation of character. We find in it 
a freshness, a spirit, a raciness, which induce us, in spite 


of all its imperfections, to lay it down with regret, and 
to resume it with new pleasure. With regard to its 
sincerity, which has been so much contested, perhaps the 
author may be acquitted of wilfully asserting what is 
false; but he seems to have considered himself fully justi- 
fied in suppressing what is true when he thought he could 
do so for the advantage of his party. Perhaps uncon- 
sciously, he makes his history the vehicle for his personal 
partialities and antipathies; and what it thus gains in 
liveliness it certainly loses in authority. There are like- 
wise to be found in the work statements of dates, speeches, 
and occurrences entirely at variance with the Journals 
of the two Houses and other authentic records; and 
which, being against his party as often as in favor of it, 
we can only account for by his want of opportunity to 
consult original papers. His memory failing him, he 
seems, occasionally, to have filled up the interval with 
what he deemed probable and characteristic, as if he had 
been writing an historical romance. With all these abate- 
ments, the History of the Rebellion was a great accession 
to English Literature: and it will continue to be read 
when Hume may be superseded by another compiler, 
equally lively and engaging, and more painstaking and 
impartial. Lives of the Lord Chancellors, Vol. HI. 


Unlike Lord Thurlow, and others, who, having con- 
trived to be celebrated in their own age, have been un- 
dervalued by posterity, the fame of Somers has gone on 
increasing from generation to generation, in proportion 
as his character and public services have been examined, 
and as the science of government has been better under- 
stood. Says Mackintosh : " Lord Somers seems to have 
nearly realized the perfect model of a wise statesman in 
a free community. His end was public liberty; he em- 
ployed every talent and resource which were necessary 
for his end, and not prohibited by the rules of morality. 
His regulating principle was usefulness. His quiet and 
refined mind rather shrunk from popular applause. He 
preserved the most intrepid steadiness, with a disposition 


so mild that his friends thought its mildness excessive, 
and his enemies supposed it could be scarcely natural" 
Lord John Russell observes that " Somers is a bright 
example of a statesman who could live in times of revo- 
lution without rancor, who could hold the highest post 
in a Court without meanness, and who could unite mild- 
ness and charity to his opponents with the firmest attach- 
ment to the great principles of liberty, civil and religious, 
which he had early espoused, long promoted, and never 
abandoned." And Lord Mahon, in language more im- 
pressive than a labored panegyric, referring to Lord 
Somers, exclaims : " I know not where to find a more 
upright and unsullied character than his. He had con- 
tracted nothing of the venality and baseness of the age. 5 * 
Lives of the Lord Chancellors, Vol. IV. 


With these eyes have I closely beheld the lineaments 
of Edward, Lord Thurlow; with these ears have I dis- 
tinctly heard the deep tones of his voice. Thurlow had 
resigned the Great Seal while I was still a child residing 
in my native land; but when I had been entered a few 
days a student at Lincoln's Inn it was rumored that, 
after a long absence from Parliament, he was to attend 
in the House of Lords, to express his opinion upon the 
very important question "whether a divorce bill should 
be passed on the petition of a wife, in a case where her 
husband had been guilty of incest with her sister?" 
there never hitherto having been an instance of a divorce 
bill in England except on the petition of a husband for 
the adultery of a wife. When I was admitted below the 
bar, Lord Chancellor Eldon was sitting on the wool-sack; 
but he excited comparatively little interest, and all eyes 
were impatiently looking round for him who had occupied 
it under Lord North, under Lord Rockingham, under 
Lord Shelburne, and under Mr. Pitt. At last there 
walked in, supported by a staff, a figure bent with age, 
dressed in an old-fashioned gray coat, with breeches and 
gaiters of the same stuff, a brown scratch wig, tremen- 
dous white, bushy eyebrows, eyes still sparkling with in- 


telligence, dreadful " crow's feet " around them, very deep 
lines in his countenance, and shrivelled complexion of a 
sallow hue; all indicating much greater senility than 
was to be expected from the date of his birth, as laid 
down in The Peerage. The debate was begun by his 
Royal Highness, the Duke of Clarence, afterwards Wil- 
liam IV., who moved the rejection of the bill, on the 
ground that marriage had never been dissolved in this 
country and never ought to be dissolved unless for 
the adultery of the wife; which alone forever frustrated 
the purposes for which marriage had been instituted. 
Lord Thurlow then rose, and the fall of a feather might 
have been heard in the House while he spoke. At this 
distance of time I retain the most lively recollection of 
his appearance, his manner and his reasoning. ... I 
never again had an opportunity of making any personal 
observation of Thurlow; but this glimpse of him renders 
his appearance familiar to me, and I can always imagine 
that I see before me and that I listen to the voice of this 
great imitator of Gargantua. I must confess, however, 
that my recent study of his career and his character has 
considerably lowered him in my estimation; and I have 
come to the conclusion that, although he certainly had a 
very vigorous understanding and no inconsiderable ac- 
quirements, he imposed by his assuming manner upon the 
age in which he lived. Lives of the Lord Chancellors, 
Vol. V. 

CAMPBELL, THOMAS, a British poet and critic ; 

born at Glasgow, Scotland, July 27, 1777; 

died at Boulogne, France, June 15, 1844. Af- 
ter" graduating from the University of Glasgow, he be- 
came for a short time a tutor. Then he went to Edin- 
burgh with the design of studying law; but in the 
meanwhile he had written his poem, The Pleasures of 


Hope, which was published in 1799, and was received 
with extraordinary favor. Campbell now barely 
twenty-two assumed literature as his vocation. He 
made a trip to the Continent, and on December 3, 1800, 
from a safe position, had a glimpse of a cavalry charge 
a mere episode preparatory to the famous battle of 
Hohenlinden. This .chance incident gave occasion to 
one of Campbell's best-known lyrics, beginning "On 
Linden, when the sun was low." Campbell returned 
to Scotland in 1801, having in the meantime written 
several of the most spirited of his minor poems. In 
1803 he took up his residence at Sydenham, near Lon- 
don. He married about this time, and, having no 
adequate income, fell into pecuniary straits ; but in 1805 
a Government pension of 200 was granted him. In 
1809 he published Gertrude of Wyoming, his second 
considerable poem. From 1810 to 1820 he was, at 
least nominally, the editor of The New Monthly Maga- 
zine, to which he furnished a few noble poems, among 
which are The Last Man. In 1819 he published Speci- 
mens of the British Poets, which finally extended to 
seven octavo volumes, with biographical and critical 
notices, and an Essay on English Poetry, a work which 
was highly lauded at the time. In 1824 he published 
Theodoric and other Poems, which, notwithstanding 
a few fine lines, may be regarded as a failure. A still 
more decided failure was his latest considerable poem, 
The Pilgrim of Glencve, published only a year before 
his death. Campbell had by this time fairly broken 
down under the pressure of some domestic sorrows. 
His wife had passed away; his eldest son had died in 
early childhood, and his other son was infirm in body 
and mind; and his own personal way of life was not a 


healthful one. Broken in health, physical and mental, 
he went to Boulogne, hoping to gain recuperation. He 
died there, and his remains were brought back to 
England, and laid to rest in Westminster Abbey, with 
all the honors of a public funeral. 

Campbell wrote no little prose during his long liter- 
ary career. None of this, however, deserves to live. 
The mere titles of his chief prose works may here be 
preserved. They are: Annals of Great Britain 
(1806) ; Lectures on Poetry (1820) ; Life of Mrs. Sid- 
dons (1834) ; Letters from Algiers, etc., originally 
published in The New Monthly Magazine (1837); 
Life and Times of Petrarch (1841); Frederick the 
Great, a mere compilation, to which Campbell fur- 
nished little more than an Introduction ; a work which, 
however, furnished a kind of text for one of Mac- 
aulay's best essays (1842). Campbell's fame in litera- 
ture rests upon several short poems, and upon some 
passages embodied in three or four longer ones. 


At summer eve, when Heaven's ethereal bow 
Spans with bright arch the glittering hills below, 
Why to yon mountain turns the musing eye, 
Whose sunbright summit mingles with the sky? 
Why do those cliffs of shadowy tint appear 
More sweet than all the landscape smiling near? 
Tis distance lends enchantment to the view, 
And robes the mountain in its azure hue. 
Thus, with delight, we linger to survey 
The promised joys of life's unmeasured way; 
Thus, from afar, each dim-discovered scene 
More pleasing seems than all the past hath been, 
And every form that Fancy can repair 
From dark oblivion glows divinely there. . . . 

Primeval Hope, the Aonian Muses say, 


When Man and Nature mourned their first decay ; 
When every form of death and every woe, 
Shot from malignant stars to earth below; 
When Murder bared her arm and rampant War 
. Yoked the red dragons of her iron car; 

When Peace and Mercy, banished from the plain, 
Sprung on the viewless winds to Heaven again: 
All, all forsook the friendless, guilty mind 
But Hope, the charmer, lingered still behind. 

The Pleasures of Hope, Part I. 


Ye orient realms, where Ganges's waters run! 
Prolific fields! dominions of the sun! 
How long your tribes have trembled and obeyed! 
How long was Timour's iron sceptre swayed, 
Whose marshalled hosts, the lions of the plain, 
From Scythia's northern mountains to the main, 
Raged o'er your plundered shrines and altars bare, 
With blazing torch and gory cimeter 
Stunned with the cries of death each gentle gale, 
And bathed in blood the verdure of the vale ! 
Yet could no pangs the immortal spirit tame, 
When Brama's children perished for his name, 
The martyr smiled beneath avenging power, 
And braved the tyrant in his torturing hour ! 


When Europe sought your subject realms to gain, 
And stretched her gaint sceptre o'er the main, 
Taught her proud barks the winding way to shape, 
And braved the stormy Spirit of the Cape ; 
Children of Brama ! then was Mercy nigh 
To wash the stain of blood's eternal dye ? 
Did Peace descend, to triumph and to save, 
When f reeborn Britons crossed the Indian wave ? 
Ah, no ! to more than Rome's ambition true, . 
The Nurse of Freedom gave it not to you ! 
She the bold route of Europe's guilt began, 


And in the march of nations led the van ! 
Rich in the gems of India's gaudy zone, 
And plunder piled from kingdoms not their own, 
Degenerate trade ! thy minions could despise 
The heart-born anguish of a thousand cries; 
Could lock, with impious hands, their teeming store, 
While famished nations died along the shore: 
Could mock the groans of fellow-men, and bear 
The curse of kingdoms peopled with despair; 
Could stamp disgrace on man's polluted name, 
And barter, with their gold, eternal shame 1 


But hark ! as bowed to earth the Bramin kneels, 
From Heavenly climes propitious thunder peals 1 
Of India's fate her guardian spirits tell, 
Prophetic murmurs breathing on the shell, 
And solemn sounds that awe the listening mind, 
Roll on the azure paths of every wind, 

"Foes of mankind!" (her guardian spirits say,) 
" Revolving ages bring the bitter day, 
When heaven's unerring arm shall fall on you, 
And blood for blood these Indian plains bedew; 
Nine times have Brama's wheels of lightning hurled 
His awful presence o'er the alarmed world; 
Nine times hath Guilt, through all his giant frame, 
Convulsive trembled, as the Mighty came ; 
Nine times hath suffering Mercy spared in vain 
But Heaven shall burst her starry gates again! 
He comes ! dread Brama shakes the sunless sky 
With murmuring wrath, and thunders from on high, 
Heaven's fiery horse, beneath his warrior form, 
Paws the light clouds and gallops on the storm ! 
Wide waves his flickering sword ; his bright arms glow 
Like summer suns, and light the world below ! 
Earth, and her trembling isles in Ocean's bed, 
Are shook; and Nature rocks beneath his tread! 

"To pour redrefd on India's injured realm, 
The oppressor to dethrone, the proud to whelm; 
To chase destruction from her plundered shore 


With arts and arms that triumphed once before, 
The tenth Avatar comes; at Heaven's command 
Shall Seriswattee wave her hallowed wand ! 
And Camdeo bright, and Ganesa sublime, 
Shall bless with joy their own propitious clime ! 
Come, Heavenly Powers ! primeval peace restore ! 
Love Mercy Wisdom ! rule for evermore ! " 

The Pleasures of Hope, Part I. 


Unfading Hope ! When life's last embers burn, 
And soul to soul, and dust to dust return ! 
Heaven to thy charge resigns the awful hour ! 
Oh ! then thy kingdom comes, Immortal Power ! 
What though each spark of earth-born rapture fly 
The quivering lip, pale cheek, and closing eye? 
Bright to the soul thy seraph hands convey 
The morning dream of Life's eternal day: 
Then, then, the triumph and the trance begin, 
And all the phoenix spirit burns within ! 

Oh ! deep-enchanting prelude to repose 
The dawn of bliss, the twilight of our woes ! 
Yet half I hear the panting spirit sigh, 
It is a dread and awful thing to die ! 
Mysterious worlds, untravelled by the sun, 
Where Time's far-wandering tide has never run, 
From your unfathomed shades, and viewless spheres, 
A warning comes, unheard by other ears, 
'Tis Heaven's commanding trumpet, long and loud, 
Like Sinai's thunder, pealing from the cloud ! 
While Nature hears, with terror-mingled trust, 
The shock that hurls her fabric to the dust ; 
And, like the trembling Hebrew, when he trod 
The roaring waves, and called upon his God, 
With mortal terrors clouds immortal bliss, 
And shrieks, and hovers o'er the dark abyss. 

Daughter of Faith ! awake, arise, illume 
The dread unknown, the chaos of the tomb: 
Melt and disperse, ye spectre-doubts that roll 
Cimmerian darkness o'er the parting soul ! 



Fly, like the moon-eyed herald of Dismay, 
Chased on his night-steed by the Star of Day ! 
The strife is o'er; the pangs of Nature close, 
And Life's last rapture triumphs o'er her woes. 
Hark! as the spirit eyes, with eagle gaze, 
The noon of Heaven, undazzled by the blaze, 
On heavenly wings that waft her to the sky, 
Float the sweet tones of star-born melody; 
Wild as that hallowed anthem sent to hail 
Bethlehem's shepherds in the lonely vale 
When Jordan hushed his waves, and midnight still 
Watched on the holy towers of Zion hill . . . 

Oh! lives there, Heaven, beneath thy dread expanse 
One hopeless, dark indolator of Chance, 
Content to feel, with pleasures unrefined, 
The lukewarm passions of a lowly mind; 
Who, mouldering earthward, 'reft of every trust, 
In joyless union wedded to the dust 
Could all his parting energy dismiss, 
And call this barren world sufficient bliss? . 

Are these the pompous tidings ye proclaim, 
Lights of the world, and demigods of Fame? 
Is this your triumph this your proud applause, 
Children of Truth, and champions of her cause? 
For this hath Science searched, on weary wing, 
By shore and sea, each mute and living thing? 
Launched, with Iberia's pilot from the steep, 
To worlds unknown and isles beyond the deep? 
Or round the cope her living chariot driven. 
And wheeled in triumph through the Signs of Heaven? 
Oh ! star-eyed Science ! hast thou wandered there, 
To waft us home the message of despair? 
Then bind the palm, thy sage's brow to suit, 
Of blasted leaf, and death-distilling fruit ! . . . 

Cease, every joy to glimmer on my mmd; 
But leave, oh leave, the light of Hope behind ! 
What though my winged hours of bliss have been, 
Like angels' visits, few and far between: 
Her musing mood shall every pang appease, 
And charm, when pleasures lose the power to please. 


Yes, let each rapture, dear to Nature, flee : 
Close not the light of Fortune's stormy sea, 
Mirth, Music, Friendship, Love's propitious smile, 
Chase every care, and charm a little while; 
Ecstatic throbs the fluttering heart employ, 
And all her strings are harmonized to joy. . . . 

Eternal Hope! when yonder spheres sublime 
Pealed their first notes to sound the march of Time, 
Thy joyous youth began but not to fade: 
When all the sister planets hare decayed; 
When, wrapped in fire, the realms of ether glow, 
And Heaven's last thunder shakes the world below, 
Thou, undismayed, shalt o'er the ruins smile, 
And light thy torch at Nature's funeral pile. 

Pleasures of Hope, Pan II. 


Clasp me a little longer on the brink 
Of fate ! while I can feel thy dear caress ; 

And when this heart hath ceased to beat oh ! think, 
And let it mitigate thy woe's excess, 
That thou hast been to me all tenderness, 

And friend to more than human friendship just. 
Oh ! by that retrospect of happiness, 

And by the hopes of an immortal trust, 

God shall assuage thy pangs when I am laid in dust ! 

Go, Henry, go not back, when I depart, 
The scene thy bursting tears too deep will move, 

Where my dear father took thee to his heart, 
And Gertrude thought it ecstasy to rove 
With thee, as with an angel, through the grove 

Of peace, imagining her lot was cast 
In heaven; for ours was not like earthly love. 

And must this parting be our very last? 

No ! I shall love thee still, when death itself is past. 

Half could I bear, methinks, to leave this earth,- 

And thee, more loved than aught beneath the sun, 
If I had lived to smile but on the birth 


Of one dear pledge ; but shall there then be none 

In future times no gentle little one. 
To clasp thy neck, and look, resembling me? 

Yet seems it, eVn while life's last pulses run, 
A. sweetness in the cup of death to be, 
Lord of my bosom's love ! to die beholding thee ! 

Gertrude of Wyoming, Part III. 


Ye Mariners of England ! 

That guard our native seas; 
Whose flag has braved, a thousand years, 

The battle and the breeze ! 
Your glorious standard launch again 

To match another foe! 
And sweep through the deep, 

While the stormy winds do blow; 
While the battle rages loud and long, 

And the stormy winds do blow. 

The spirits of your fathers 

Shall start from every wave ! 
For the deck it was their field of fame, 

And Ocean was their grave: 
Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell, 

You manly hearts shall glow, 
As ye sweep through the deep, 

While the stormy winds do blow; 
While the battle rages loud and long; 

And the stormy winds do blow. 

Britannia needs no bulwarks, 

No towers along the steep ; 
Her march is o'er the mountain-waves, 

Her home is on the deep; 
With thunders from her native oak, 

She quells the floods below 
As they roar on the shore, 

When the stormy winds do blow; 
When the battle rages loud and long, 

And the stormy winds do blow. 


The meteor flag of England 

Shall yet terrific burn; 
Till danger's troubled night depart, 

And the star of peace return. 
Then, then, ye ocean-warriors ! 

Our song and feast shall flow 
To the fame of your name, 

When the storm has ceased to blow; 
When the fiery fight is heard no more, 

And the storm has ceased to blow. 


Our bugles sang truce for the night-cloud had lowered, 
And the sentinel stars set their watch in the sky; 

And thousand had sunk on the ground overpowered, 
The weary to sleep and the wounded to die. 

When reposing that night on my pallet of straw, 
By the wolf-scaring faggot that guarded the slain; 

At the dead of the night, a sweet vision I saw, 
And thrice ere the morning I dreamt it again. 

Methought from the battle-field's dreadful array, 
Far, far I had roamed on a desolate track; 

'Twas Autumn and sunshine arose on the way 
To the home of my fathers, that welcomed me back. 

I flew to the pleasant fields traversed so oft 
In life's morning march, when my bosom was young; 

I heard my own mountain-goats bleating aloft, 
And knew the sweet strain that the corn-reapers sung. 

Then pledged we the wine-cup, and fondly I swore, 
From my home and my weeping friends never to part ; 

My little ones kissed me a thousand times o'er, 
And my wife sobbed aloud in her fulness of heart. 

Stay, stay with us rest, thou art weary and worn; 

And fain was their war-broken soldier to stay: 

But sorrow returned with the dawning of morn, 

And the voice in my dreaming ear melted away. 



Drink to her that each loves best, 

And if you nurse a flame 
That's told but to her mutual breast, 

We will not ask her name. 

Enough, while Memory, tranced and glad, 

Paints silently the fair, 
That each should dream of joys he's had, 

Or yet may hope to share. 

Yet far, far hence, be jest or boast 

From hallowed thoughts so dear: 

But drink to her that each loves most, 
As she would wish to hear. 


All worldly shapes shall melt in gloom, 
The Sun himself must die, 

Before this mortal shall assume 
Its Immortality ! 

I saw a vision in my sleep, 

That gave my spirit strength to sweep 

Adown the gulf of Time ! 
I saw the last of human mould, 
That shall Creation's death behold, 

As Adam saw her prime ! 

The Sun's eye had a sickly glare, 

The Earth with age was wan, 
The skeletons of nations were 

Around that lonely man! 
Some had expired in fight the brands 
Still rested in their bony hands; 

In plague and famine some ! 
Earth's cities had no sound nor tread; 
And ships were drifting with the dead 

To shores where all was dumb ! 


Yet, prophet-like, that lone one stood 

With dauntless words and high, 

That shook the sere leases from the wood 

As if a storm passed by, 
Saying, " We are twins in death, proud Sun t 
Thy face is cold, thy race is run, 

Tis Mercy bids thee go, 
For thou ten thousand thousand years 
Hast seen the tide of human tears, 

That shall no longer flow. 

" What though beneath thee man put f ortti 

His pomp, his pride, his skill; 
And arts that made fire, flood, and earth, 

The vassals of his will; 
Yet mourn I not thy parted sway, 
Thou dim discrowned king of day: 

Far all those trophied arts 
And triumphs that beneath thee sprang, 
Healed not a passion or a pang 

Entailed on human hearts. 

" Go, let oblivion's curtain fall 

Upon the stage of men, 
Nor with thy rising beams recall 

Life's tragedy again. 
Its piteous pageants bring not back, 
Nor waken flesh, upon the rack 

Of pain anew to writhe; 
Stretched in disease's shapes abhorred, 
Or mown in battle by the sword, 

Like grass beneath the scythe. 

" Even I am weary in yon skies 

To watch thy fading fire; 
Test of all sumless agonies, 

Behold not me expire. 
My lips that speak thy dirge of death 
Their rounded gasp and gurgling breath 

To see thou shalt not boast. 


The eclipse of Nature spreads my pall 
The majesty of Darkness shall 
Receive my parting ghost! 

"This spirit shall return to Him 

Who gave its heavenly spark; 
Ye think not, Sun, it shall be dim 

When thou thyself art dark! 
No! it shall live again, and shine 
In bliss unknown to beams of thine, 

By Him recalled to breath, 
Who captive led captivity, 
Who robbed the grave of Victory 

And took the sting from Death! 

" Go, Sun, while Mercy holds me up 

On Nature's awful waste 
To drink this last and bitter cup 

Of grief that men shall taste 
Go, tell the night that hides thy face, 
Thou saw'st the last of Adam's race, 

On Earth's sepulchral clod, 
The darkening universe defy 
To quench his Immortality, 

Or shake his trust in God ! " 

JAMPIAN, EDMUND, an English theologian; 
born at London, January 25, 1540; died at 
Tyburn, December i, 1581. He came of hum- 
ble parentage, was educated at Oxford University, 
where he took a degree and became a fellow of St 
John's ; he was admitted to holy orders in the English 
Church and was ordained deacon in 1567. His con- 
viction underwent a change shortly afterward, how- 
ever, and feeling that he could not assent to the Pro- 
testant formulary required by the English Church, he 
VOL. V 4 


resigned his position at Oxford and journeyed to Ire- 
land, where he wrote a history of the country. Having 
met Allen and others at Douay, he joined the Society 
of Jesus, or Jesuits. He resided for awhile at Briinn, 
Vienna, and Prague, teaching philosophy and rhetoric, 
but was subsequently sent by Gregory XIIL, with 
Father Parsons, on a mission to England. He landed 
in England in 1580, and immediately began to perform 
the duties of his mission by making challenges to the 
Universities and clergy to dispute with him. In July 
of the next year, he with his companion were seized 
with two other agents at Lyford in Berks, and confined 
in the Tower, charged with having excited the populace 
to rebellion and carrying on a treasonable correspond- 
ence with foreign powers. He was tried, found guilty, 
condemned to death and executed at Tyburn, with a 
number of other agents of his order. 

He was a man of admitted ability, eloquent as an 
orator, a subtle reasoner in the field of philosophy, and 
a diplomat of remarkable ability. His disposition was 
amiable and he is held in high esteem by all writers, 
whether of the Protestant or Roman Catholic faith, on 
account of his acquirements and proficiency. His prin- 
cipal works include History of Ireland, (1571) and 
Decem Rationes (Ten Reasons for denouncing the 
Protestant and embracing the Roman Catholic Re- 
ligion), 1581, and translated into English in 1827. A 
Life of Campian was published in 1867, by Richard 


Listen, Elizabeth, mighty queen. The prophet is 
speaking to thee, is teaching thee thy duty. I tell thee 
one heaven cannot receive Calvin and these thy ancestors ; 


join thyself, therefore to them, be worthy of thy name, 
of thy genius, of thy learning, of thy fame, of thy for- 
tune. Thus only do I conspire, thus only will I conspire 
against thee, whatever becomes of me, who am so often 
threatened with the gallows as a conspirator against thy 
life. Hail, thou good cross I The day shall come, Eliza- 
beth, the day that will show thee clearly who loved thee 
best the Society of Jesus or the brood of Luther. 

From Biography by Richard Simpson. 

BANNING, GEORGE, an English statesman and 
orator; born near London, April n, 1770; 
died at Chiswick, August 8, 1827. His par- 
ents died while he was a mere child; but a wealthy 
uncle took charge of the boy, and had him educated at 
Eton and Oxford, where he acquired a splendid repu- 
tation for ability. In 1794, at the age of twenty-four, 
he was returned to Parliament for the borough of 
Newport. Of his subsequent brilliant political career 
we can here give only an outline. In 1807 he was 
made Secretary for Foreign Affairs. In 1809 a dis- 
pute arose between him and his colleague, Lord Castle- 
reagh, the Secretary-at-War, which resulted in a duel, 
in which neither party was hurt ; but both combatants 
resigned their offices, and for a while Canning kept 
aloof from general politics. Still his great capacities 
were recognized. From 1814 to 1816 he was ambas- 
sador at Lisbon, and from 1817 to 1820, President of 
the Board of Control for India. He had already been 
named as Governor-general of India, when the suicide 
of Castlereagh opened up new political complications, 
the result of which was that Canning did not go to 


India, but remained at home, taking an active part in 
the stirring events of the succeeding years. The out- 
come was that, early in 1827, Lord Liverpool, who had 
for fifteen years been the nominal head of the govern- 
ment, broke down physically and mentally, and 
Canning was made Premier. It was a thankless post. 
Those upon whose aid he had counted failed him, and 
he had to encounter a fierce parliamentary opposition ; 
which told severely upon him. A severe cold brought 
a sudden close to his life. The British nation ac- 
corded to him its highest honors honors due alike to 
his grand political career and to his unblemished pri- 
vate life. He was buried in Westminster Abbey, in 
the " Statesmen's Corner," his grave being close by 
that of Pitt. 

Canning's name in literature rests mainly upon a 
few clever squibs contributed in early life to a periodi- 
cal entitled The Anti-Jacobin. These were parodies 
upon poems by Southey and others. Southey had 
published a laudatory " Inscription for the Apartment 
in Chepstow Castle, where Henry Marten, the regi- 
cide, was imprisoned thirty years." Canning cleverly 
parodied this by " An Inscription for the door of the 
Cell in Newgate, where Mrs. Brownrigg, the ' Pren- 
tice-cide, was confined 1 previous to her execution." 


For one long term, or ere her trial came, - 
Here Brownrigg lingered. Often have these cells 
Echoed her blasphemies, as, with shrill voice, 
She screamed for fresh geneva. Not to her 
Did the blithe fields of Tothill, or thy street, 
St. Giles, its fair varieties expand, 
Till at the last, in slow-drawn cart, she went 
To execution. Dost thou ask her crime? 


She whipped two female 'prentices to death, 

And hid them in the coal-hole; for her mind 

Shaped strictest plans of discipline. Sage schemes! 

Such as Lycurgus taught, when at the shrine 

Of the Orthyan goddess he bade flog 

The little Spartans; such as erst chastised 

Our Milton when at college. For this act 

Did Brownrigg swing. Harsh laws ! But time shall come 

When France shall reign, and laws be all repealed ! 

Canning projected The Rover s } a burlesque drama 
levelled at The Robbers of Schiller and the Stella of 
Goethe. It opens with a soliloquy by Rogero, "a 
student who has been immured eleven years in a sub- 
terraneous vault in the Abbey of Quedlinburg." 


Whene'er with haggard eyes I view 
This dungeon that I'm rotting in, 
I think of those companions true 
Who studied with me at the U- 
niversity of Gottingen 
niversity of Gottingen. 

[Weeps and pulls out a Hue kerchief with which he 
wipes his eyes; gazing tenderly at it, he proceeds ] 

Sweet kerchief, checqued with heavenly bkte, 

Which once my love sat knotting in ! 
Alas ! Matilda then was true ! 
At least I thought so at the U- 
niversity of Gottingen 
niversity of Gottingen. 

[At the repetition of this Une, Rogero clanks his chains 
in cadence^} 

Barbs ! barbs ! alas \ how swift you flew, 
Her neat post-wagon trotting in! 


Ye bore Matilda from my view; 
Forlorn I languished at the U- 
niversity of Gottingen 
niversity of Gottingen. 

This faded form ! this pallid hue ! 

This blood- my veins is clotting in ! 
My years are many they were few 
When first I entered at the U~ 
niversity of Gottingen 
niversity of Gottingen. 

There first for thee my passion grew 
Sweet, sweet Matilda Pottingen ! 
Thou wast the daughter of my Tu- 
tor, Law Professor at the U- 
niversity of Gottingen 
niversity of Gottingen. 

Sun, moon, and thou vain world, adieu, 

That kings and priests are plotting in ! 
Here doomed to starve on water-gru- 
el, never shall I see the U- 

niversity of Gottingen 
niversity of Gottingen 

[During the last stanza, Rogero dashes his head re- 
peatedly against the walls of his prison; and finally so hard 
as to produce a visible contusion. He then throws himself 
on the floor in an agony. The curtain drops } the music 
continuing to playJ] 


Though short thy space, God's unimpeached decrees, 

Which made that shortened span one long disease ; 

Yet merciful in chastening, gave thee scope 

For mild redeeming virtues faith and hope, 

Meek resignation, pious charity; 

And since this world was not the world for thee, 


Far from thy path removed with partial care 
Strife, glory, gain, and pleasure's flowery snare, 
Bade earth's temptations pass thee harmless by, 
And fixed on heaven thine unreverted eye ! 
Oh, marked from birth, and nurtured for the skies! 
In youth with more than learning's wisdom wise! 
As sainted martyrs, patient to endure! 
Simple as un weaned infancy, and pure 
Pure from all stain (save that of human clay, 
Which Christ's atoning blood hath washed away !) 
By mortal sufferings now no more oppressed, 
Mount, sinless spirit, to thy destined rest ! 
While I reversed our nature's kindlier doom 
Pour forth a father's sorrow on thy tomb. 

CANTON, WILLIAM, an English poet and essay- 
ist; born in China, October 27, 1845. He was 
educated in France for the Roman Catholic 
priesthood, but decided upon a secular career. He 
then entered journalism, and was for many years upon 
the staff of the Glasgow Herald. In 1890 he was 
appointed sub-editor of the Contemporary Review. 
His published works include A Lost Epic and Other 
Poems (1887) ; The Invisible Playmate (1894) ; 
W. V. Her Book, and Various Verses (1896) ; A 
Child's Book of Saints (1899) ; and Children's Say- 
ings (1900). Mr. Canton is strikingly original in his 
verse. His Invisible Playmate and W. V. Her Book, 
have attracted much attention, and have been re-pub- 
lished in various countries. 


In the orchard blithely waking, 

Through the blossom, loud and clear, 


Pipes the goldfinch, " Day is breaking ; 

Waken, Babsie ; May is here ! 
Bloom is laughing; lambs are leaping; 

Every new green leaflet sings; 
Five chipp'd eggs will soon be cheeping; 

God be praised for song and wings ! " 

Warm and ruddy as an ember, 

Lilting sweet from bush to stone, 
On the moor in chill November 

Flit's the stone-chat all alone: 
" Snow will soon drift up the heather ; 

Days are short, nights cold and long; 
Meanwhile in this glinting weather 

God be thanked for wings and song ! " 

Round from Maytime to November 

Babsie lilts upon the wing, 
Far too happy to remember 

Thanks or praise for anything; 
Save at bedtime, laughing sinner, 

When she gaily lisps along, 
For the wings and song within her 

" Thank you, God, for wings and song ! " 

W. V. Her Book. 


Did you ever read or hear 

How the Aid (God bless the Aid! 
More earnest prayer than that was never prayed.) 
How the lifeboat, Aid of Ramsgate, saved the London 
Fusilier f 

With a hundred souls on board, 
With a hundred and a score, 

She was fast on Goodwin Sands. 

(May the Lord 

Have pity on all hands 
Crew and captain when a ship's on Goodwin 


In the smother and the roar 

Of a very hell of waters hard and fast 

She shook beneath the stroke 

Of each billow as it broke, 

And the clouds of spray were mingled with the clouds 

of swirling smoke 
As the blazing barrels bellowed in the blast ! 

And the women and the little ones were frozen dumb 

with fear; 

And the strong men waited grimly for the last; 
When as clocks were striking two in Ramsgate 


The little Aid came down, 
The Aid, the plucky Aid 
The Aid flew down the gale 
With the glimmer of the moon upon her sail; 
And the people thronged to leeward; stared and 

Prayed and stared with tearless eye and breathless 


While the little boat drew near. 
Ay, and then there rose a shout 
A clamour, half a sob and half a cheer 
As the boatmen flung the lifeboat anchor out, 
And the gallant Aid sheered in beneath the ship, 
Beneath the shadow of the London Fusilier! 

ff We can carry may be thirty at a trip " 

(Hurrah for Ramsgate town!) 

" Quick, the women and the children!" 

O'er the side 
Two sailors, slung in bowlines, hung to help the 

women down 

Poor women, shrinking back in their dismay 
As they saw their ark of refuge, smothered up in 

Ranging wildly this and that way in the racing of 

the tide; 


As they watched it rise and drop, with its crew of 

stalwart men, 
When a huge sea swung it upward to the bulwarks of 

the ship, 
And, sweeping by in thunder, sent it plunging down 


Still they shipped them nine-and-twenty. (God be 


When a man with glaring eyes 
Rushed up frantic to the gangway with a cry choked 

in his throat 
Thrust a bundle in a sailor's ready hands. 

Honest Jack, he understands 

Why, a blanket for a woman in the boat ! 

"Catch it, Bill!" 

And he flung it with a will; 

And the boatman turned and caught it, bless him ! 

caught it, tho' it slipped, 

And, even as he caught it, heard an infant's cries, 
While a woman shrieked, and snatched it to her 

"My baby!" 

So the thirtieth passenger was shipped! 

Twice, and thrice, and yet again 

Flew the lifeboat down the gale 

With the moonlight on her sail 

With the sunrise on her sail 

(God bless the lifeboat Aid and all her men!) 

Brought her thirty at a trip 

Thro' the hell of Goodwin waters as they raged 

around the ship, 
Saved each soul aboard the London Fusilier! 

If you live to be a hundred, you will ne'er 

You will ne'er in all your life, 

Until you die, my dear, 

Be nearer to your death by land or sea 1 


Was she there? 

Who? my wife? 

Why, the baby in the blanket that was she ! 

W. V. Her Book. 

ANTU, CESARE, an Italian historian, novelist, 
and poet ; born at Brisio, near Milan, Septem- 
ber 5, 1805; died March n, 1895. He was 
educated at Sondrio, and appointed Professor of 
belles-lettres there. He afterward went to Como and 
to Milan. The liberal opinions expressed in his 
Reflections on the History of Lombardy, caused his 
imprisonment, during which he wrote a historical 
romance entitled Margherita Pusterla. This work, 
published in 1845, became very popular. Cantu was 
the author of the following works: Storia Uni- 
versde, 35 vols. (1831-42); History of Italian Lit- 
erature (1851) ; History of the Last Hundred Years 
'(1852) ; History of the Italians (1859) ; Milmo, Storia 
del Popolo e pel Popolo (1871); Cronisteria delta 
Independenza Italiana (1873) > an d Caratteri Storici 
(1881). He was also the author of several popular 
hymns and poems, and of articles in the Biblioteca 
Italiana, and the Indicators of Milan. 


Luchino awaited Margherita in a small saloon, seated 
in an arm-chair adorned with carvings and covered with 
damask. He had taken off his cuirass, his helmet and 
all his armor, and with his legs crossed, leaned on his left 
elbow against an arm of the chair, his cheek resting on 
the back of his hand. Two brilliant eyes sparkled in a 
face of that masculine beauty shared by all the Visconti, 


a face on which strength had rendered ineffaceable the 
wrinkle first imprinted by pride and contempt. Rich 
curling hair fell from his uncovered head upon the broad 
shoulders. He waited with eyes fixed on the door, and a 
mingled expression of villainous hope and satisfied ven- 
geance in his face. 

Margherita appeared before him, dressed in a brown 
robe, neglected and torn, but in the folds of which as 
well as in her head-gear were revealed the graceful habits 
of a refined woman, who, in time past, had drawn a 
murmur of admiration from every one who saw her. 
Since that time, how she had changed! Nevertheless, 
amid the deep traces of suffering, she still appeared far 
more beautiful than she would have wished to be in 
order to escape the wicked desires of her persecutor. 
But what added to her beauty was that aspect of supe- 
riority which the face of innocence preserves when 
through the not rare combination of circumstances, it is 
called upon to justify its own virtue in the midst of 
prevalent iniquity superiority so sublime that a wise 
man has pronounced it the most wonderful spectacle in 
the sight of Heaven. 

To a man habituated to crime a new wickedness counts 
little. Luchino awaited Margherita with the indolent air 
of the fowler awaiting his prey in the net. Perhaps, 
learned as he was, there came into his mind the Roman 
emperor, who caressing his wife, said to her : " Thou 
pleasest me the more because 1 think that with a word 
I could cause thy head to roll at my feet." It is true 
that he had not planned to use violence toward her. To 
tell the truth, he had not thought it would be necessary. 
The corrupt soul believes all others like itself. Seldom, 
, if ever, had Luchino found beauty proof against the flat- 
tery of wealth, vanity or power. How could he, then, 
believe that she would be so to whom past sufferings 
should have made clear that on him depended all her 
future; that a sign from him could reduce her to misery 
or raise her to surpass her equals at court more than 
that, could restore to her her husband and her son. . . . 
Hence he saluted her courteously, and said: 


" In how different a state do I see you again, lady." 

" In that state," replied Margherita, " to which your 
Highness has been pleased to reduce me." 

" Look ! " cried Luchino, raising his head, and strik- 
ing his palm on the arm of his chair. " Look 1 at the 
very first moment a proud, disdainful word! The pris- 
ons, then, have not abated your pride I Why not rather 
acknowledge your error ? Why not say, ' I am in that 
state to which my follies have brought me mine and 
those of others?'" 

" Prince," replied the lady, with touching dignity, " I 
beg you to remember that I am not yet judged, and that 
the court of justice will show that, in order to injure me, 
faults of which I am ignorant have been attributed to 
me For the rest, the assurance in my face ought to 
attest my innocence." 

He smiled with the cold and cruel pride which ribald 
power feels at the name of virtue, and rejoined: "That 
assurance is the sign also of the robber, guilty of the 
blood of many. I have never seen a rebel who did not 
at first show, in every action, innocence that disappeared 
at the trial. They must be very strong reasons which 
would move me to bring hither a person whom you know 
whether I esteem whether I love;" and, rising, he ad- 
vanced toward her with an air of insolent familiarity. 
She retreated backward, silent and sighing. . . . 
" But you," continued Luchino, " how do you respond to 
the proofs of my affection? With ostentatious pride, 
wearisome contempt and derision, and afterward easy 
transition with conspiracy and treason, Who are you 
to hope to stand against your master? Miserable crea- 
ture ! he blows upon you, and you are dust ! " 

Thus, now gentle, now severe, he approached her from 
all sides, probing her spirit, and she, always noble, did 
not confute his arguments, and let his anger exhale. She 
was right, and he begged her pardon whilst he reviled her. 
He spoke of love, and when he persisted, she said : 

" But, prince, if it is true that you care for me, why 
not listen to my prayer, the first, and perhaps the last, 
that I shall make to you? Save my husband! save my 


son 1 " And, throwing herself at his feet, she embraced 
his knees, repeating, with all the eloquence of innocent 
and unhappy beauty, " Save them ! " 

" Yes," replied he : " it rests with you. A little less 
pride on your part, and I will restore them to you." 

The fear that her dear ones had already fallen vic- 
tims to their enemy had always tormented the poor 
woman. I do not know whether she had artfully ut- 
tered this prayer in order to learn the truth; but the re- 
ply assured her that they were alive. With an exulting 
heart, whose joy she could not conceal, she exclaimed: 

" Then they live ! O prince, O lord, restore them to 
me! they are innocent; I alone am guilty: punish me 
me; not them. O master, I beseech you with the fervor 
with which, at the point of death, you will ask God to 
pardon you. Pray grant me to see them once, only once; 
then torture me as you please." 

He had come to torment her, and, against his will, he 
had consoled her. He had reckoned upon dishearten- 
ing her, and, without perceiving it, he had been the 
means of raising her spirit of exalting her. Luchino 
was not a little disquieted by this, and, as often hap- 
pens to him who receives an unexpected check, he be- 
came more confused when he endeavored to disentangle 
himself, and lost his habitual coolness. Wishing to make 
a merit of his involuntary revelation, and trying to snatch 
away the hope wherewith she had let herself be flattered, 
he replied: 

" Doubt not that you shall see them. Oh, you shall 
see them, and you shall be sorry for it. Wherever they 
have fled, I shall not be slow to catch them. And then 
and then " 

" Fled ! have they then fled ? " exclaimed the woman, 
almost beside .herself with joy. " Then they are not in 
your power, not in your power, and alive! Oh, joy!" 
She sprang up, raised her hands to heaven, her tearful 
face shining with ineffable content. " Great God ! " she 
cried, "I thank thee, I thank thee! I complained that 
Thou hadst forgotten me in the depths of my misery, 
and it was not so ; Thou hadst not abandoned me ? What 


are sufferings to me now? O prince, I will grieve no 
more, I will suffer what pains you will. I will hold my 
peace though you double, though you refine, my torments. 
If they are safe, I care not for my life ! " 

With her joy increased the fury of the tyrant, piqued 
at having revealed a thing of which he had not sup- 
posed her ignorant; at seeing himself exposed and 
taunted with injustice. . . . Now he redoubled his 
threats, now he sought to turn her perturbation to ac- 
count for his unworthy designs; but if at the first she 
had withstood flattery and fear, now that she thought 
her dear ones alive and free she felt herself secure 
from his wrath since those for whom she trembled were 
secure. . . . 

" Tremble ! you know not how far my vengeance can 
reach," were the last words which he shrieked in his 
anger, while she, with upraised eyes beaming with spot- 
less serenity, the light of heaven on the face of virtue 
saved from peril, thanked God and took the way to her 

Luchino, fuming, stamping, grinding his teeth and bit- 
ing his finger, strode up and down the apartment; then 
resumed his armor and went out, taciturn, agitated. . . . 
No need to say that a good part of the severe orders 
of that day were directed against Margherita. Not only 
did he prohibit her daily nourishing food, but he cast 
her into a worse and deeper prison than before. The 
jailer, miserable being, pleased openly to ill-treat the 
persons consigned to him, as he saw the food carried 
away which had been a welcome sacrifice to his glut- 
tony, became beyond measure severe, as if to revenge 
himself on her who had forfeited a favor profitable to 
him alone. Whereas at first his venal soul had descended 
to some courtesy, in words and manner at least, he now 
endeavored to render the vengeance of his master still 
more insupportable by disrespectful actions and low jests. 

The prison to which she had been removed was sit- 
uated within the tower of the Roman gate. It was a 
prison fitting for the times in which were constructed 
the Zilie of Padua, by Ezzolino, and the Forni of Monza, 


by Galeazzo, into which the condemned were let down 
through a hole in the ceiling, and were deposited upon a 
rough, convex pavement, in so cramped a situation that 
they could neither stand upright nor lie at full length. 
. . . In her cell Margherita could take three or four 
steps: the only light was the stinted gleam from a high 
window, looking out on a garden in the court-yard, in 
such a manner that on rainy days the dampness trickled 
down from it, and covered the walls with saltpetre. 

The winter days had passed. It was now the begin- 
ning of May, when the warm airs set astir the life of 
the fields, and infuse an ineffable joy into animals and 
men. From her former chamber Margherita had cheered 
her sight with the greenness of the fields, the swelling 
buds of the trees and the opening leaves on their high- 
est branches. With the love and satisfaction that only 
prisoners know, she had observed and measured, day 
by day, the growth, the dilation, the deeper green: she 
had felt the fertilizing zephyrs blowing upon her face, 
had heard the garrulous flocks of birds renewing their 
songs and their loves under the soft beams of the sun. 
. . . But here, nothing of all this, no more roaming 
through the distance, over the immense country, far, 
far toward the west, to rest upon the mountains, scarcely 
distinct from the horizon. Here not one plant, not one 
grassy clod, not the sight of one human form to which 
her fancy might turn; no power to gaze on the mel- 
ancholy splendors of the moon; nothing but darkness, 
stench, and the silence of the desert. And now Mar- 
gherita's tears flowed more freely, less painfully. 

At her first entrance into that dungeon she had thrown 
herself on her knees to thank the Virgin. She had pre- 
served her honor, and she had learned that life-giving 
news. How it mitigated her sufferings! How fancy 
smiled! The imagination of the prisoner loved to wan- 
der afar, and stay itself upon what might happen after 
many years, rather than to dwell upon her present cruel 
situation. In thought and hope she dwelt upon the day 
when, with husband and son, she would return free to 
the city; and bathed herself, so to speak, in the waves 


of light which the sun pours upon the earth of Lorn- 
bardy. She saw again the shores of Lake Maggiore, 
full of youthful memories of an age most joyful because 
most careless. She saw herself growing old in her own 
house, her age filled with sweetness by a son worthy of 
all her love, and with him grandsons who should be 
born from him to repeat in peace the journey of life. 
Dreaming of this, she thanked God, and already seemed 
to be with her Francisco, her Veturino. . . . 

In the morning, when a tardy ray of light fell across 
the bars of her prison, with her first thought she flew to 
her beloved ones who rejoiced in the full beams of the 
sun; a thousand times during the monotonous days she 
thought of them, but chiefly at the close of the day 
that hour burdened with the sighs of the exile, the soli- 
tary, all those who suffer. She knew they were free; 
she followed in their track where with whom? She 
could not divine, but it was where the tyranny of the 
Visconte could not overtake them. Over what a vast 
expanse did the fancy of the sufferer rove! The 
thoughts soothed her through the day, they were repro- 
duced even in sleep, and gladdened her slumber. She 
still suffered; nevertheless from time to time a tranquil 
ray brightened the gloom, so that at length she might 
be called happy. More than once MacarufTo came lis- 
tening at he entrance to the prison, wishing, perhaps, 
to hear murmuring and railing: instead of tfaat he 
heard her singing^ with a voice soft and sweet as a flute 
sounding from afar through the silence of the night 
singing the litany imploring the Mother of Sorrows to 
pray for her. . . . One day, just at die edge of the 
night, her song was interrupted by a louder tramping 
than usual in the courtyard, the sound of derisive laugh- 
ter, and of insults, among which were distinguished 
softer lamentations than are usually heard among pris- 
oners, making a discord among the sharper voices which 
could only be heard by an ear accustomed to listen. The 
troubled heart is always open to fear. With the anxiety 
of a dove which sees tne cuckoo fix its eyes upon her 

t, Margherita sprang to the dungeon window, with 
VOL. V. 5 


her delicate hands caught the great bars, directed her 
gaze toward that confused crowd, and saw a child with 
disordered blond hair hanging over his eyes, who strug- 
gled, shrieking, in the arms of the soldiers, and cried 
" Father, father!" to another, who, all in chains and 
with downcast face, followed him. Margherita shrieked 
like one struck to the heart, and fell fainting to the 
pavement Her eyes, her ears, although at a distance, 
and by an uncertain light, had recognized in those two 
unhappy ones her Francisco, her Veturino. Margherita 

lish Roman Catholic ecclesiastic; born at 
Hastings, October 28, 1835. He was edu- 
cated tinder private tutors at Oxford, and was 
ordained priest by Cardinal Wiseman in 1860. Soon 
after his ordination the state of his health obliged 
him to go to a warmer climate. He took up his resi- 
dence at Pau, in Southern France, where he estab- 
lished an English Roman Catholic Mission, of which 
he became chaplain. While here engaged in the work 
of "conversion," he was named private chamberlain to 
Pope Pius IX., and in 1873, after his return to Eng- 
land, was made domestic prelate. In England he 
acquired great celebrity as a preacher, especially as a 
defender of the doctrines of his Church. In 1873 he 
established the Roman Catholic Public School at Ken- 
sington, and in the following year was appointed 
Rector of the College of Higher Studies at Kensing- 
ton, which was the nucleus of the Roman Catholic 
English University, a position which he held until 
1878. Upon several occasions he visited Rome, 


where, by the express command of the Pope, he deliv- 
ered courses of sermons in English. In 1874 he pub- 
lished A Reply to the Right Hon. W. E. Gladstone's 
Political Expostulation, in consequence of which he 
became involved in a sharp newspaper controversy 
with Canon Liddon. In 1884-85 Monsignor Capel 
made an extended visit to the United States, and put 
forth a little volume entitled, " Catholic:" an Essential 
and Exclusive Attribute of the True Churchy from 
which the following passages are taken : 


It is plain that the promise [of the coming of the 
Paraclete] refers to a new office which would be super- 
added to that which the Holy Ghost already holds. He 
was the Inspirer of the Prophets. He is the Sanctifier 
of Men. But the promise declares him to be from that 
time and forever the Vivifier of the Body of Christ. The 
promise thus made was fulfilled ten days after the As- 
cension : " Suddenly there came a sound from heaven, 
as of a mighty wind coming, and it filled the whole 
house where they were sitting. And there appeared to 
them cloven tongues as it were of fire; and it' sat upon 
each of them, and they were filled with the Holy Ghost, 
and they began to speak with divers tongues, according 
as the Holy Ghost gave them to speak." So was born 
the Church of the Living God: Pentecost Day is her 
birthday. Her organization was conceived and fash- 
ioned by divine wisdom; She received a divine life; She 
has to fulfil a divine mission; She is possessed of divine 
power; She is the appointed guardian of the divine 
revelation. From that moment, and henceforth to the 
consummation of ages, is this Human Divine Society 
to have a continuous life in this world. No power of 
earth or hell can destroy it, for Jesus is it's invisible 
Head, the Holy Spirit its invisible and active principle 
of life, and God's power is pledged that " against it the 
gates of hell shall not prevail." Indestructible, because 


of the divine element within, yet composed of human 
beings without, it bears outwardly the manifestations of 
man's weakness. In the outward visible body of the 
Church the good and the bad will ever be commingled 
till the harvest-time come. But this destroys not her 
divine life no more than sickly or delicate flesh destroys 
the life of the human being, In the language of Origen 
we affirm that "the sacred Scriptures assert the whole 
Church to be the Body of Christ, endowed with life by 
the Son of God. Of this Body, which is to be regarded 
as a whole, the members are individual believers. For, 
as the soul gives life and motion to the body, which of 
itself could have no living motion, so the Word, giving 
a right motion and energy, moves the whole Body, the 
Church, and each one of it's members." On Pentecost 
night this visible Human Divine Society, having per- 
fect organization, was commensurate with Christianity. 
None other save itself has the Doctrine of Christ; it 
alone was the duly appointed Organ for teaching Reve- 
lation to man, and for dispensing the. Mysteries of God. 
This is the Kingdom of Christ, the City seated on a 
Mountain, the Pillar and Ground of Truth, the Temple 
and Church of the Living God, the Bride of the Lamb. 


The law of her growth is fixed by God. It is by in- 
corporation, not by accretion. Of the food taken by 
the human body are blood, bone, and tissue made; these 
by assimilation expand or augment the already existing 
members. So the Mystic Body of Christ absorbs by 
holy baptism the souls of men, receiving them by ones 
or in numbers. But these additions increase without al- 
tering the organization; they are assimilated to the Body 
of the Church. Thus is preserved the identity of her 
being, although the individuals composing the visible body 
are ever varying by death and by spiritual birth. As 
truly as man notwithstanding the varying change of 
the particles of his body is able to say Ego every day 
of his life, so, too, can the Church, the Spouse of Christ, 
speak of her unchanging quasi-personality. 



With the growth of her disciples, there was necessarily 
a growth of her ministers the ecclesia docens; but here 
again it is by a fixed law. As the Father sent the Son 
to preach the Gospel, so did the Son send the Apostles. 
They, in turn, sent others bishops, priests, and deacons 
commissioned with the same divine authority, to 
preach and fulfil the Ministry. . . . Knowing that 
they were possessed of this divine authority, in virtue 
of which Christ had said, " He that heareth you heareth 
me; he that despiseth you despiseth me," the pastors 
were able to speak as men having authority, and to 
exact subjection to their teachings and government in 
things spiritual. Their Master's words were ever in 
their minds: "Whoever shall not hear you or receive 
your words, when you depart out of that city, shake 
off the dust from your feet; verily, I say unto you it 
shall be more tolerable for the land of Sodom and Go- 
morrah in the day of judgment than for that city." 
Hence could St. Paul say: "Remember your Prelates 
and be subject to them, for they watch as being to ren- 
der an account of your souls." 


"The 'imposition of hands' is the sacrament of 
Orders; and, common with the other sacraments, its 
effect is conferred direct by God. But the 'Commis- 
sion/ or * being sent/ is derived direct from the Apostks. 
It specifies when, how, and where the divine a ithority 
is to be exercised by the individual pastor. . . . These 
two powers are distinguished as the power of Order, 
and the power of Jurisdiction* Both are of God. The 
one comes direct through the Sacrament of Orders; the 
other indirectly from God, through the Church by ap- 
pointment The power of Jurisdiction is not necessarily 
attached to Orders; though for some acts such as 
absolution from sin both are necessary. . . . The 
power of Order gives capacity ; the power of Jurisdiction 


permits the use of the authority. The dispenser o the 
power of Order is but an instrument; the grantor of 
the power of Jurisdiction exercises authority and do- 
minion. The first coming directly from Christ is 
abiding, unchangeable, and is conferred in equal measure 
on each priest and bishop. The second coming not 
immediately, but through the Church from Christ to in- 
dividuals is conferred in varying proportions, as may 
be deemed expedient for the good of souls. . . . 


Such, then, is the nature, the constitution, the principle 
of life, and the law of growth of that Body of Christ 
divinely appointed to be the sole Guardian and Teacher 
of the Christian Revelation. A living Divine Organism 
whose unity is to be the criterion of the mission of 
Jesus, and a visible mark whereby his disciples may be 
known. . . . Fashioned during our Lord's public 
life, as to its external organization; born, with its divine 
internal principle of life, on Pentecost Day; this Church 
is ever to live, sitting in the midst of the nations, day 
by day instructing and training souls in the way of sal- 
vation. So is her Life to be indefectible, her Voice in- 
fallible, and her Presence visible. 

|ARDUCCI, GIOSUE, an Italian poet and 
philologist; born at Valdicastello, Tuscany, 
July 27, 1836. The son of a physician, he 
spent his youth in study ; and was appointed to a pro- 
fessorship in the University of Pisa at the age of 
twenty-five. In 1861 he became professor of Italian 
literature at the University of Bologna. From this 
he was suspended for a short time in 1867 f r having, 
as a Republican, signed an address to Mazzini. In 


1876 he was elected to parliament for Lugo di 
Romagna. His Juvenilia and Levia Gravia, written 
in early life in imitation of Alfieri and Manzoni, gave 
little indication of the fire and force of expression 
which began to be seen in the later political poems 
of the Decennalia, and which were fully revealed in 
the Nuove Poesie. These latter are remarkable for 
sustained power and dignity of language, and for no- 
bility of thought. His Odi Barbare excited the most 
enthusiastic admiration of his countrymen, who gen- 
erally regard him as the foremost of contemporary 
Italian poets. Among the numerous literary works 
of Carducci have been II Poliziano, a review founded 
in 1858 with some youthful fellow-poets; a series of 
criticisms entitled Studi Litierarii (1874) and Bos- 
zetti Critici e Disc or si Letterarii (1875) 5 critical 
editions of Ariosto's Poesie Latine (1875) and 
Petrarch's Rime (1879) I an( l a collection of the popu- 
lar songs of the Middle Ages. 


As I studied the revolutionary movement in history 
and literature, gradually there manifested itself in my 
mind, not an innovation, but an explanation, which sur- 
prised and comforted me. How content was I with 
myself (forgive the word !) when I perceived that my ob- 
stinate classicism had been a just aversion to the liter- 
ary and philosophic reaction of 1815; when I was able 
to justify it by the doctrines and the examples of so 
many illustrious artists and thinkers; when I found that 
my sins of paganism had been already committed but 
in how far more splendid a guise! by many of the 
noblest minds and souls in Europe; and that this pagan- 
ism, this worship of form, was in fact nothing else than 
the love of glorious nature, from which the solitary 


Semitic abstraction had so long and so ferociously di- 
vorced the spirit of man 1 

Translation from the Preface to His Poems. 


Hail, human creatures, weary and oppressed! 

Nothing is lost, nothing can perish wholly. 
Too long we've hated. Love alone is blessed, 

Love; for the world is fair, the future holy. 

Who shines upon the summit with a face 
Bright as Aurora's, in the morning ray? 

Once more along these mountains' rosy trace 
Do meek Madonna's footsteps deign to stray? 

Madonnas such as Perugino saw 

In the pure sunset of an April sky 
'Stretch wide above the Babe, in gentle awe, 

Adoring arms, with sweet divinity? 

No; 'tis another goddess} From her brow 
Justice and mercy shed effulgent splendor. 

Blessings on him who lives to serve her now ! 
Blessings on him who perished to defend her ! 
Translation from II Canto delV Amore. 

AREW, THOMAS, an English poet; born about 
1598; died, probably at London, about 1639, 
He was a younger son of Sir Matthew 
Carew; but of his early life little is kown, for he 
seems to have fallen into dissipated habits. He en- 
tered Corpus Christi College, Oxford, but did not 
graduate; and in 1613 his father, writing to a friend, 
complains that while one of his sons is roving after 


hounds and hawks, the other is doing little at his 
work. Thomas became secretary to Sir Dudley Carle- 
ton about this time, and appears to have gone with 
him on his embassy to Venice and Turin, returning 
in 1615 to London. He went in the same capacity to 
the Continent once more; but suddenly returned in a 
fit of irritation. Again we find his father describing 
him as wandering idly about without employment ; but 
in 1619 he went with Lord Herbert of Cherbury to 
the French court. He afterward obtained some post 
at the British court; and beyond this little is known 
of his life. He is said to have stood high in the 
favor of Charles L, who had a high opinion of his wit 
and abilities. Carew was associated more or less 
closely with almost all the eminent literary men of his 
time. Some of Sir John Suckling's poems are ad- 
dressed to him, and are by no means creditable to 
either. Carew's longest performance was C&lum 
Britannicum, a masque performed at Whitehall in 
1633; h* 8 ot her poems are chiefly songs and society 
verses, composed, it is said, with great difficulty, but 
melodious and highly polished, though characterized 
by the conceits and affectations of his time. Four 
editions of his works were printed between 1640 and 
1671; a fifth in 1772; and four have been published 
during the present century, by far the most complete 
and elaborate being that of W, C Hazlitt, published 
in quarto in 1870. Bolton Corney, writing to Notes 
and Queries in 1868, says: ' <r Fhe biographic in- 
formation of Carew is very scanty. Ellis asserts that 
his death certainly happened in 1634; Ritson, with 
more probability, assigns the event to 1639. I* 1 J 638 
he resided in King Street, Westminster much out 


of health. I can trace him no further. I doubt his 
claim to the authorship of the Masque." 


He that loves a rosy cheek, 

Or a coral lip admires : 
Or from starlike eyes doth seek 

Fuel to maintain his fires : 
As old time makes these decay, 
So his flames must waste away. 

But a smooth and steadfast mind, 
Gentle thoughts and calm desires; 

Hearts -with equal love combined; 
Kindle never-dying" fires. 

Where these are not, I despise 

Lovely cheeks, or lips, or eyes ! 

No tears, Celia, now shall win 

My resolved heart to return; 
I have searched thy soul within 

And find nought but pride and scorn; 
I have learned thy arts, and now 
Can disdain as much as thou. 
Some power, in my revenge, convey 
That love to her I cast away. 


Read in these roses the sad story 
Of my hard fate and your own glory; 
In the white you may discover 
The paleness of a fainting lover ; 
In the red, the flames still feeding 
On my heart with fresh love bleeding. 
The white will tell you how I languish, 
And the red express my anguish : 
The white my innocence displaying, 
The red my martyrdom betraying. 


The frowns that on your brow resided, 
Have these roses thus divided; 
Oh ! let your smiles but clear the weather, 
And then they both shall grow together. 


The purest soul that e'er was sent 
Into a clayey tenement 
Informed this dust; but the weak mould 
Could the great guest no longer hold; 
The substance was too pure; the flame 
Too glorious that thither came: 
Ten thousand Cupids brought along 
A grace on each wing, that did throng 
For place there till they all opprest 
The seat in which they sought to rest; 
So the fair model broke, for want 
Of room to lodge th' inhabitant. 


Now that the winter's gone, the Earth hath lost 

Her snow-white robes, and now no more the frost 

Candies the grass, or casts an icy cream 

Upon the silver lake, or crystal stream: 

But the warm Sun thaws the benumbed Earth 

And makes it tender, gives a sacred birth 

To the dead swallow, wakes in hollow tree 

The drowsy cuckoo and the humble bee. 

Now do a choir of chirping minstrels bring; 

In triumph to the world, the youthful Spring; 

The valleys, hills, and woods, in rich array, 

Welcome the coming of the long'd-for May. 

Now all things smile: only my love doth low'r 

Nor hath the scalding noon-day Sun the pow'r 

To melt that marble ice, which still doth hold 

Her heart congeal'd, and makes her pity cold. 

The ox, which lately did for shelter fly 

Into the stall, doth now securely lie 

In open fields: and love no more is made 


By the fireside; but in the cooler shade 
Amyntas now doth with his Chloris sleep 
Under a sycamore, and all things keep 
Time with the season; only she doth carry 
June in her eyes, in her heart January. 


Ask me no more where Jove bestows, 
When June is past, the fading rose ; 
For in your beauties, orient deep 
These flow'rs, as in their causes, sleep. 

Ask me no more whither do stray 
The golden atoms of the day; 
For, in pure love, Heaven did prepare 
These powders to enrich your hair. 

Ask me no more whither doth haste 
The Nightingale, when May is past; 
For in your sweet^ dividing throat 
She winters, and keeps warm her note. 

Ask me no more where those stars light,, 
That downward fall at dead of night, 
For in your eyes they sit, and there 
Fixed become, as in their sphere. 

Ask me no more if east or west, 
The phoenix builds her spicy nest; 
For unto you at last she flies, 
And in your fragrant bosom dies. 


|AREY, HENRY CHARLES, an American political 
economist; born at Philadelphia, Pa., Decem- 
ber 15, 1/93; died there, October 13, 1879, 
He was the son of Matthew Carey, whom he suc- 
ceeded in the publishing business in 1821 as the head 
of the firm of Carey & Lea. His first work was an 
essay on The Rate of Wages, published in 1836. 
The Principles of Political Economy appeared in 
1837-40. Among his other works are The Credit Sys- 
tem of France, Great Britain and the United States 
(1838); The Past, the Present, and the Future 
(1848); The Harmony of Interests, Agricultural, 
Manufacturing and Commercial (1851) ; Letters on the 
International Copyright; Letters on the Currency; and 
Letters on the Slave-Trade (1853); Principles of 
Social Science ( 1858) ; Review of the Decade 
1857-67 (1867); The Unity of Law (1873). Mr. 
Carey was an original and vigorous thinker, and his 
writings have been translated into several European 
languages. He is recognized as the founder of a new 
school of political economy which substitutes for the 
" dismal science " of Malthus and Ricardo a philoso- 
phy of physical, social, and political progress. 


The first cultivator, the Robinson Crusoe of his day, 
provided, however, with a wife, has neither axe nor 
spade. He works alone. Population being small, land 
is, of course, abundant, and he may select for himself, 
fearless of any question of his title. He is surrounded 
by soils possessed in the highest degree of qualities 
fitting them for yielding large returns to labor, but they 
are covered with immense trees that he cannot fell, or 


they are swamps that he cannot drain. To pass through 
them, even, is a work of serious labor, the first being a 
mass of roots, stumps, decaying logs, and shrubs, while 
into the other he sinks knee-deep at every step. The 
atmosphere, too, is impure, as fogs settle upon the low- 
lands, and the dense foliage of the wood prevents the 
circulation of the air. He has no axe, but had he one 
he would not venture there, for to do so would be at- 
tended with risk of health and almost certain loss of 
life. Vegetation, too, is so luxuriant that before he 
could, with the imperfect machinery at his command, 
clear a single acre, a portion of it would be again so 
overgrown that he would have to recommence his 
Sisyphean labor. The higher lands, comparatively bare 
of timber, are little fitted for yielding a return to his 
exertions. There are, however, places on the hill where 
the thinness of the soil has prevented the growth of 
trees and shrubs, or there are spaces among the trees 
that can be cultivated while they still remain; and when 
pulling up by the roots the few shrubs scattered over 
the surface, he is alarmed by no apprehension of their 
speedy reproduction. With his hands he may even suc- 
ceed in barking the trees, or, by the aid of fire he may 
so far destroy them that time alone will be required for 
giving him a few cleared acres, upon which to sow his 
seed with little fear of weeds. To attempt these things 
upon the richer lands would be a loss of labor. In 
some places the ground is always wet, while in others 
the trees are too large to be seriously injured by fire, 
and its only effect would be to stimulate the growth of 
weeds and brush. He therefore commences the work 
of cultivation on the higher grounds, where, making 
with his stick holes in the light soil that drains itself, 
he drops the grain an inch or two below the surface, 
and in due season obtains a return of twice his seed. 
Pounding this between stones, he obtains bread, and his 
condition is improved. He has succeeded in making 
the earth labor for him while himself engaged in trap- 
ping birds or rabbits, or in gathering fruits, 
Later, he succeeds in sharpening a stone, and thus ob- 


4 ,ains a hatchet, by aid of which he is enabled to proceed 
more rapidly in girdling the trees, and in removing the 
sprouts and their roots a very slow and laborious opera- 
tion, nevertheless. In process of time, he is seen bringing 
into activity a new soil, one whose food-producing powers 
were less obvious to sight than those at first attempted. 
Finding an ore of copper, he suceeds in burning it, and 
is thus enabled to obtain a better axe, with far less labor 
than had been required for the inferior one he has thus 
far used. He obtains, also, something like a spade, and 
can make holes four inches deep with less labor than, 
with his stick, he could make those of two. Penetrating 
to a lower soil, and being enabled to stir the earth and 
loosen it, the rain is now absorbed where before it had 
run off from the hard surface, and the new soil thus 
obtained proves to be far better, and more easily wrought, 
than that upon which his labor has heretofore been 
wasted. His seed, better protected, is less liable to be 
frozen out in winter, or parched in summer, and he now 
gathers thrice the quantity sown. 

At the next step we find him bringing into action an- 
other new soil. He has found that which, on burning, 
yields him tin, and by combining this with his copper he 
has brass, giving him better machinery, and enabling him 
to proceed more rapidly. While sinking deeper into the 
land first occupied, he is enabled to clear other lands upon 
which vegetation grows more luxuriantly, because he can 
now exterminate the shrubs with some hope of occupying 
the land before they are replaced with others equally 
useless for his purposes. His children have grown, and 
they can weed the ground, and otherwise assist him in 
removing the obstacles by which his progress is impeded. 
He now profits by association and combination of action, 
as before he had profited by the power he had obtained 
over the various natural forces he had reduced into 

Next, we find tiim burning a piece of the iron soil 
which surrounds him in all directions, and now he obtains 
a real axe and spade, inferior in quality, but still much 
superior to those by which his labor has been thus far 


aided. With the help of his sons, grown to man's estate, 
he now removes the light pine of the hillside, leaving still 
untouched, however, the heavier timber of the river bot- 
tom. His cultivable ground is increased in extent, while 
he is enabled, with his spade, to penetrate still deeper than 
before, thus bringing into action the powers, of the soils 
more distant from the surface. He finds, with great 
pleasure, that the light sand is underlaid with clay, and 
that by combining the two he obtains a new one far more 
productive than he first had used. He remarks, too, that 
by turning the surface down the process of decomposition 
is facilitated, and each addition to his knowledge in- 
creases the return to his exertions. With further increase 
of his family, he has obtained the important advantage 
of increased combination of action. Things that were 
needed to be done to render his land mor,e rapidly pro- 
ductive, but which were to himself impracticable, become 
simple and easy when now attempted by his numerous 
sons and grandsons, each of whom obtains far more food 
than he alone could at first command, and in return for 
far less severe exertion. They next extend their opera- 
tions downward, toward the low grounds of the stream, 
girdling the large trees, and burning the brush and thus 
facilitating the passage of air so as to fit the land, by 
degrees, for occupation. 

With increase jf numbers there is now increased power 
of association, manifested by increased division of em- 
ployments, and attended with augmented power to com- 
mand the service of the great natural agents provided 
for their use. One portion of the little community now 
performs all the labors of the field, while anotlrr gives 
itself to the further development of the mineral wealth 
by which it is everywhere surrounded. They invent: a 
hoe, by means of which the children are enabled to free 
the ground from weeds, and to tear up some of the roots 
by which the best lands those last brought under cul- 
tivation are yet infested. They have succeeded in 
taming the ox, but, as yet, have had little occasion for 
his services. They now invent the plough, and by 
means of a piece of twisted hide, are enabled to attach 


the ox, by whose help they turn up a deeper soil while 
extending cultivation over more distant land. The com- 
munity grows, and with it grows the wealth of the indi- 
viduals of which it is composed, enabling them from 
year to year to obtain better machinery, and to reduce 
to cultivation more and better lands. The Principles of 
Social Science. 

|AREY, MATTHEW, an Irish-American book- 
seller and political economist; born at Dublin, 
January 28, 1760; died at Philadelphia, Pa., 
September 16, 1839. At seventeen he published an 
Address to the Irish Catholics, on account of v^hich he 
was forced to take refuge -in France. Returning to 
Ireland, he set up, in 1783, a newspaper, The Volun- 
teer's Journal In consequence of articles published 
in this paper, attacking Parliament and the Ministry, 
he was arraigned before the House of Commons and 
committed to Newgate until the dissolution of Parlia- 
ment Having been liberated, he sailed for America, 
arriving at Philadelphia in November, 1784. Two 
months afterward he started The Pennsylvania 
Herald, the first newspaper in America which fur- 
nished accurate reports of legislative debates, the 
reports being written by himself. In 1787 he estab- 
lished The American Museum, a monthly periodical 
intended " to preserve the valuable fugitive essays that 
appear in the newspapers/' This magazine was con- 
tinued for six years, and, says Mr. Duyckinck, "the 
volumes contain a greater mass of interesting- and val- 
uable literary and historical matter than is to be found 
in any other of our early American magazines." Soon 

VOL. V.6 


after the discontinuance of The Museum Mr. Carey 
commenced business as a bookseller upon a very small 
scale, his stock in trade consisting mainly of spelling- 
books. This enterprise was very successful, and 
grew into one of the largest publishing establishments 
in the country. 

Matthew Carey was, during the remainder of his 
long life, prominent in the social and benevolent 
movements of his time, and took an active part in 
discussions upon economic and political questions. 
His writings were numerous. Prominent among 
them is The Olive Branch, or, Faults on Both Sides, 
Federal and Democratic (1814). This work was de- 
signed to harmonize the antagonistic parties of the 
country, pending the war with Great Britain; it 
passed through ten editions in four years, and is still 
regarded as a high authority in regard to the political 
history of the period. In 1819 he published the 
V indicia Hiberniccz, a refutation of the charges 
brought against the Irish of outrages alleged to have 
been committed during the rebellion of 1641. In 
1820 he published The New Olive Branch, in which 
he endeavored to show how harmonious were the real 
interests of the various portions of society. In 1822 
he published a volume of Essays on Political Econ- 
omy, which was followed during the next ten years 
by some fifty pamphlets, containing in all more than 
two thousand pages; the leading design of all being 
to show that the " protective system " was essential to 
the welfare of the country. In 1833-34 he published 
in the New England Magazine an Autobiography, in 
a series of somewhat desultory papers. 



The plan of this work requires some short explanation. 
I believe the country to be in imminent danger of con- 
vulsion, whereof the human mind cannot calculate the 
consequences. The nation is divided into two hostile 
parties, whose animosity towards each other is daily in- 
creased by inflammatory publications. Each charges the 
other with the guilt of having produced the present alarm- 
ing state of affairs. In private life, when two individ- 
uals quarrel, and each believes the other wholly in the 
wrong, a reconciliation is hardly practicable. But when 
they can be convinced that the errors are mutual as 
is almost universally the case they open their ears to 
the voice of reason, and are willing to meet each other 

A maxim sound in private affairs is rarely unsound in 
public life. While a violent Federalist believes all the 
evils of the present state of things have arisen from the 
guilt of the Administration nothing less will satisfy him 
than hurling Mr. Madison from the seat of government 
and "sending him to Elba/' While, on the other hand, 
a violent Democrat persuades himself that all our dangers 
have arisen from the difficulties and embarrassments con- 
stantly and steadily thrown in the way of the Administra- 
tion by Federalists, he is utterly averse to any compro- 
mise. Each looks down upon the other with scorn and 
hatred, as the Pharisee in the Gospel upon the publican. 
I have endeavored to prove and I believe I have fully 
proved that each party has a heavy debt of error and 
folly and guilt to answer for to its injured country and 
to posterity; and, as I have stated in the body of this 
work, that mutual forgiveness is no more than an act 
of justice, and can lay no claim to the character of lib- 
erality on either side. 

But even supposing for a moment what probably 
hardly ever occurred since the world was formed that 
the error is all on one side, is it less insane in the other 
to increase the difficulty of extrication to refuse its 
aid to embarrass those who have the management of 


affairs? My house is on fire; instead of calling for aid, 
or calling for fire-engines, or endeavoring to smother 
the flames, I institute an inquiry as to how it took fire-^ 
whether by accident or design and if by design, who 
was the incendiary; and further undertake to punish him 
on the spot for his wickedness ! a most wise and won- 
derful procedure; and just on a level with the wisdom, 
and patriotism, and public spirit of those sapient mem- 
bers of Congress who spend days in making long speeches 
upon the cause of the war and the errors of its manage- 
ment every idea whereof has been a hundred, perhaps 
a thousand, times repeated in the newspapers instead 
of meeting the pressing and imperious necessity of the 
emergency. , . . 

While I was deliberating about the sacrifice which 
such a publication as this requires, one serious and af- 
fecting consideration removed my doubts and decided 
my conduct. Seeing thousands of the flower of our pop- 
ulation to whom the Spring of life just opens, with all 
its joys and pleasures and enchantments, prepared in the 
tented field to risk, or, if necessary, to sacrifice their 
lives for their country's welfare, I thought it would be 
baseness in me whose sun has long passed the merid- 
ian, and on whom the attractions of life have ceased to 
operate with their early fascinations to have declined 
any risk that might arise from the effort to ward off the 
parricidal stroke aimed at a country to which I owe such 
heavy obligations. With this view of the subject, I 
could not decide otherwise than I have done. Preface 
to the -first edition (November, 1814). 

Mr. Carey, in the preface to the second edition 
'(April, 1815), states that he is "attached to and in 
general approves of the political views and most part 
(not the whole by any means) of the party which 
was stigmatized as Anti-Federal before the adoption 
of the Federal Constitution, and now is styled Demo- 
cratic or Republican. This fact gives weight to What 


he had written in regard to the errors made by that 
party : 


In the convention that formed the Federal Constitu- 
tion the Democratic party sowed the seeds of a prema- 
ture dissolution of that instrument and of the American 
Confederacy. Regarding Society more as ^it ought to 
be than as it ever has been, or is ever likely to be; 
seduced by theories more plausible than solid applying 
to a free elective government, deriving all its powers 
and authorities from the voice of the people, maxims 
and apprehensions and precautions calculated for the 
meridian of monarchy, they directed all their efforts 
and all their views toward guarding against oppression 
from the Federal Government Whatever of authority 
or power they divested it of to bestow on the State 
Governments, or to reserve to the People, was regarded 
as an important advantage. Against the Federal Gov- 
ernment their fears and terrors were wholly directed. 
This was the horrible monster which they labored to 
cripple and chain down, to prevent its ravages. The 
State Governments they regarded with the utmost com- 
placence as the public protectors against this dreadful 
enemy of liberty. Had they succeeded in all their views 
they would have deprived the General Government of 
nearly all its efficiency. Alas! little did they suppose 
that our grand danger would arise from the usurpations 
of the State Governments, some of which have since 
most awfully and treasonably jeopardized the Union. 

Unfortunately, this party was too successful in the 
Convention. Its energy and ardent zeal produced a 
Constitution which, however admirably calculated for a 
period of peace, has been found incompetent ^n war to 
call forth at once and decisively the energies of the 
nation, and the administration of which has bee* i re- 
peatedly bearded, baffled, and thwarted by the State 
Governments. Had the real Federalists in the Conven- 
tion succeeded, and made the General Government some- 
what more energetic, and endowed it with a small degree 


of power more than it possesses, it might endure for 
centuries. What fate at present awaits it is not in hu- 
man wisdom to foresee. I fervently pray, with the cele- 
brated Father Paul, esto perpetua. 

This error of the Democratic party arose from want 
of due regard to the history of republics, and from a 
profound study of those political writers who had writ- 
ten under monarchical governments, and whose views 
were wholly directed to guard against the danger of 
tyranny flowing from the overweening regal power, es- 
pecially when possessed by men of powerful talents and 
great ambition. The theories whence they derived their 
views of government were splendid and sublime; the 
productions of men of great spirit and regard for the 
general welfare and happiness: and had they been duly 
attempered by maxims drawn from experience would 
have been of inestimable value. Olive Branch, Chap. IL 

The specific errors of the Democratic party having 
been detailed at some length, the author proceeds to 
point out those of the Federal party : 


Having thus taken what I hope will be allowed to be 
a candid view of the errors and misconduct of the Demo- 
cratic party, it remains to render the same justice to 
their opponents. And, I feel confident, it will appear 
that the latter have at least as much need to solicit the 
forgiveness of their injured country as the former. In 
the career of madness and folly which the nation has 
run, they have acted a conspicuous part, and may fairly 
dispute the palm with their competitors. 

In the Federal Convention this party made every pos- 
sible exertion to increase the energy, and add to the 
authority of the General Government, and to endow it 
with powers at the expense of the State Governments 
and the citizens at large. Bearing strongly in mind the 
disorders and convulsions of some of the very ill-bal- 
anced republics of Greece and Italy, their sole object 


of dread appeared to be the inroads o anarchy. And, 
as mankind too generally find it difficult to steer the 
middle course, their apprehensions of the Scylla of an- 
archy effectually blinded them to the dangers of the 
Charybdis of despotism. Had they possessed a com- 
plete ascendency in the Convention, it is probable they 
would have fallen into the opposite extreme to that 
which decided the tenor of the Constitution. 

This party was divided. A small but very active di- 
vision was composed of Monarchists, who utterly dis- 
believed in the efficacy or security of the republican form 
of government, especially in a territory so extensive as 
that of the United States, and embracing so numerous a 
population as, at no distant period, was to be taken into 
the calculation. The remainder were genuine repub- 
licans, men of enlightened views and a high degree of 
public spirit and patriotism. They differed as widely 
from the monarchic part of that body as from the demo- 
cratic. It is unfortunate that then counsels did not pre- 
vail For in government, as in almost all other human 
concerns, safety lies in middle courses. Violent and 
impassioned men lead themselves and it is not won- 
derful they lead others astray. This portion of the 
Federal party advocated an energetic, but a Republican 
form of government, which, on all proper occasions, 
might be able to command and call forth the force of 
the nation. . . . 

The Federal party immediately assumed the reins, and 
administered the government for twelve years. During 
this period its want of sufficient energy, and its danger 
from the State Governments, were frequent subjects of 
impassioned complaints. Every man who opposed the 
measures of the Administration of what kind soever 
they were, or from whatever motives was stigmatized 
as a disorganizer and a Jacobin. The last term involved 
the utmost extent of human atrocity. A Jacobin was, 
in fact, an enemy to social order, to the rights of prop- 
erty, to religion, to morals, and ripe for rapine and 

As far as laws can apply a remedy to the alleged fee- 


bleness of the General Government, the reigning party 
sedulously endeavored to remove the defect. They 
fenced around the constituted authorities with alien and 
Sedition law. By the former, they could banish from 
our shores obnoxious foreigners whose period of proba- 
tion had not expired. By the latter, every libel against 
the Government, and every unlawful attempt to oppose 
its measures, were subject to punishment, more or less 
severe, in proportion to their magnitude. . . . 

But everything in this sublunary world is liable to rev- 
olution. The people of the United States changed their 
rulers. By the regular course of election, they withdrew 
the reins from the Federalists, to place them in the hands 
of the Democrats. This was a most unexpected revolu- 
tion to the former. It wholly changed their views of 
the Government. The Government, which, administered 
by themselves, was regarded as miserably feeble and 
inefficient, became, on its transition, arbitrary and des- 
potic, notwithstanding that among the earliest acts of the 
new incumbents was the repeal not only of the alien and 
sedition laws, but of the most obnoxious and oppressive 

Under the effects of these new and improved political 
views a most virulent warfare was begun against their 
successors. The gazettes patronized by, and devoted to, 
Federalism, were unceasing in their efforts to degrade, 
disgrace, and defame the Administration. All its errors 
were industriously magnified, and ascribed to the most 
perverse and wicked motives. Allegations wholly un- 
founded and utterly improbable were reiterated in regu- 
lar succession. An almost constant and unvarying oppo- 
sition was maintained to all its measures; and hardly 
ever was a substitute proposed for any of them. Not the 
slightest allowance was made for the unprecedented and 
convulsed state of the world. And never were more 
ardor and energy displayed in a struggle between two 
hostile nations than the Opposition manifested in their 
attacks upon the Administration. The awful, lamenta- 
ble, and ruinous consequences of this warfare, and its 


destruction of the vital interests of the nation, will fully 
appear in the sequel. The Olive Branch, Chap. IX. 


It is vain to disguise the truth. Would to God I had 
a voice of thunder to proclaim it through the nation 1 
The convulsions and dangers of our country arose from 
the lust of office. The safety, 'the welfare, the happi- 
ness of eight millions of people, and their posterity, 
were jeopardized and exposed to ruin in the unholy 
struggle. To embarrass, disgrace, and render odious and 
unpopular the men possessed of power, for the purpose 
of displacing them, and vaulting into the vacant seats, is 
a procedure as ancient as government itself. And that 
it has been almost universally prevalent here is incon- 
trovertible. It is not wonderful that those whose grand 
and sole objects are power, and the emoluments of office, 
should pursue this plan. The depravity of human na- 
ture sufficiently accounts for it. But that a large portion 
of the community who neither have nor hope for places 
of honor or profit should lend themselves to such a 
scheme should allow themselves to be made instru- 
ments to be wielded for that purpose; that they should, 
as the history of this young country has often verified, 
shut their eyes to the vital interests of the nation, in 
order to promote the aggrandizement of a few men, is 
really astonishing. The Olive Branch, Chap. LVIL 

JAREY, ROSA NOUCHETTE, an English novelist; 
born at London in 1846. She began writing 
novels in 1868, and her fictions, in which the 
literary element is not a very strong feature, have been 
very popular with the average, uncritical reader who 
demands only to be entertained and cares little or noth- 
ing for literary style. They include Wee Wifie 


(1869); Nellie's Memories (1868) ; Barbara Heath* 
cote's Trial (1871) ; Robert Ord's Atonement (1873) ; 
Wooed and Married (1875) ; Heriofs Choice (1879) ; 
Queenie's Whim (1881) ; Mary St. John (1882) ; Not 
Like Other Girls (1884); For Lilias (1885); Uncle 
Max (1887) ; Only the Governess (1888) ; Basil Lynd- 
hurst (1889) Lover or Friend (1890) ; Sir Godfrey's 
Grand-daughters (1892); Men Must Work (1892); 
The Old Old Story (1894); Mrs. Romney (1894); 
The Mistress of Brae Farm (1896) ; Other People's 
Lives (1897) ; Mollie's Prince (1898) ; Twelve Nota- 
ble Good Women; My Lady Frivol (1899) I Rue with 
a Difference; Life's Trivial Round (1900); Herb of 
Grace (1901) ; The Highway of Fate (1902). 


Five-o'clock tea was a great institution in Oldfield. 

It was a form of refreshment to which the female in- 
habitants of that delightful place were strongly addicted. 
In vain did Dr. Weatherby, the great authority in all 
that concerned the health of the neighborhood, lift up his 
voice against the mild feminine dram-drinking of these 
modern days, denouncing it in no measured terms; the 
ladies of Oldfield listened incredulously, and, softly quot- 
ing Cowper's lines as to the " cup that cheers and not 
inebriates," still presided over their dainty little tea-tables, 
and vied with one another in the beauty of their china and 
the flavor of their highly-scented Pekoe. 

In spite of Dr. Weatherby's sneers and innuendos, a 
great deal of valuable time was spent in lingering in one 
or another of the pleasant drawing-rooms of the place. 
As the magic hour approached, people dropped in casually. 
The elder ladies sipped their tea and gossiped softly; the 
younger ones, if it were summer time, strolled out through 
the open windows into the garden. Most of the houses 
had tennis-grounds, and it was quite an understood thing 
that a game should be played before they separated. 


With some few exceptions, the inhabitants of Oldfield 
were wealthy people. Handsome houses standing in their 
own grounds were dotted here and there among the lanes 
and country roads. Some of the big houses belonged to 
very big people indeed; but these were aristocrats who 
only lived in their country houses a few months in the 
year, and whose presence added more to the dignity than 
to the hilarity of the neighborhood. 

With these exceptions, the Oldfield people were highly 
gregarious and hospitable ; in spite of a few peculiarities, 
they had their good points; a great deal of gossip pre- 
vailed, but it was in the main harmless and good-natured. 
There was a wonderful simplicity of dress, too, which in 
these days might be termed a cardinal virtue. The girls 
wore their fresh cambrics and plain straw hats; no one 
seemed to think it necessary to put on smart clothing when 
they wished to visit their friends. People said this Ar- 
cadian simplicity was just as studied, nevertheless, it 
showed perfection of taste and a just appreciation of 

The house that was considered the most attractive In 
Oldfield, and where, on summer afternoons, the sound of 
youthful voices and laughter were the loudest, was Glen 
Cottage, a small white house adjoining the long village 
street, belonging to a certain Mrs. Challoner, who lived 
here with her three daughters. 

This may be accounted strange in the first instance, 
since the Challoners were people of the most limited in- 
come an income so small that nothing but the most 
modest of entertainments could be furnished to their 
friends ; very different from their neighbors at Longmead, 
the large white house adjoining, where sumptuous dinners 
and regular evening parties were given in the dark days 
when pleasures were few and tennis impossible. 

People said it was very good-natured of the Maynes; 
but then when there is an only child in the case, an honest, 
pleasure-loving, gay young fellow, on whom his parents 
dote, what is it they will not do to please their own flesh 
and blood? and, as young Richard Mayne or Dick, 
as he was always called loved all such festive gather- 


ings, Mrs. Mayne loved them too ; and her husband tried 
to persuade himself that his tastes lay in the same direc- 
tion, only reserving certain groans for private use, that 
Dick could not be happy without a houseful of young 

But no such entertainments were possible at Glen Cot- 
tage; nevertheless, the youth oi the neighborhood flocked 
eagerly into the pleasant drawing-room where Mrs. Chal- 
loner sat tranquilly summer and winter to welcome her 
friends, or betook themselves through the open French 
windows into the old-fashioned garden, in which mother 
and daughters took such pride. 

On hot afternoons the tea-table was spread under an 
acacia-tree, low wicker chairs were brought out, and rugs 
spread on the lawn, and Nan and her sisters dispensed 
strawberries and cream, with the delicious home-made 
bread and butter; while Mrs. Challoner sat among a few 
chosen spirits knitting and talking in her pleasant low- 
toned voice, quite content that the burden of responsibility 
should rest upon her daughters. 

Mrs. Challoner always smiled when people told her that 
she ought to be proud of her girls. No daughters were 
ever so much to their mother as hers; she simply lived 
in and for them; she saw with their eyes, thought with 
their thought's was hardly herself at all, but Nan and 
Phillis and Dulce, each by turns. 

Long ago they had grown up to her growth. Mrs. 
Challoner's nature was hardly a self-sufficing one. Dur- 
ing her husband's lifetime she had been braced by his in- 
fluence and cheered by his example, and had sought to 
guide her children according to his directions ; in a word, 
his manly strength had so supported her that no one, not 
even her shrewd young daughters, guessed at the interior 

When her stay was removed, Mrs. Challoner ceased to 

guide, and came down to her children's level. She was 

more like their sister than their mother, people said; and 

yet no mother was more cherished than she. 

Her very weakness made her sacred in her daughters' 


eyes; her widowhood, and a certain failure of health, 
made her the subject of their choicest care. 

It could not be said that there was much amiss, but 
years ago a doctor whom Mrs. Challoner had consulted 
had looked grave, and mentioned the name of a disease 
of which certain symptoms reminded him. There was 
no ground for present apprehension ; the whole thing was 
very shadowy and unsubstantial a mere hint a ques- 
tion of care ; nevertheless the word had been said, and the 
mischief done. 

From that time Mrs. Challoner was wont to speak 
gloomily of her health, as of one doomed. She was by 
nature languid and lymphatic, but now her languor in- 
creased; always averse to effort, she now left all action 
to her daughters. It was they who decided and regulated 
the affairs of their modest household, and rarely were 
such wise young rulers to be found in girls of their age. 
Mrs. Challoner merely acquiesced, for in Glen Cottage 
there ws seldom a dissentient' voice, unless it were that 
of Dorothy, who had been Dulce's nurse, and took upon 
herself the airs of an old servant who could not be re- 

They were all pretty girls, the three Misses Challoner, 
but Nan was par excellence the prettiest. No one could 
deny that fact who saw them together. Her features 
were more regular than her sisters', and her color more 
transparent. She was tall, too, and her figure had a cer- 
tain willowy grace that was most uncommon; but what 
attracted people most was a frankness and unconscious- 
ness of manner that was perfectly charming. 

Phillis, the second sister, was not absolutely pretty, per- 
haps, but she was nice-looking, and there was something 
in her expression that made people say she was clever; 
she could talk on occasions with a fluency that was quite 
surprising, and that would cast Nan Into the shade. " If 
I were only as clever as Phillis ! " Nan would sigh. 

Then there was Dulce, who was only just eighteen, and 
whom her sisters treated as the family pet ; who was light 
and small and nimble in her movements, and looked even 
younger than she really was. 


Nobody ever noticed if Dulce were pretty ; no one ques- 
tioned if her features were regular or not, or cared to do 
such a thing. Only when she smiled, the prettiest dimple 
came into her cheek, and her eyes had a fearless childlike 
look in them; for the rest, she was just Dulce. 

The good-looking daughters of a good-looking mother, 
as somebody called them ; and there was no denying Mrs. 
Challoner was still wonderfully well preserved, and, in 
spite of her languor and invalid airs, a very pretty 

Five-o'clock tea had long been over at the cottage this 
afternoon, and a somewhat lengthy game of tennis had 
followed ; after which the visitors had dispersed as usual, 
and the girls had come in to prepare for the half-past 
seven-o'clock dinner ; for Glen Cottage followed the fash- 
ion of its richer neighbors, and set out its frugal meal 
with a proper accompaniment of flower-vases and even- 
ing toilet, Not Like Other Girls. 

EMILIA FLYGARE, a Swedish novel- 
1st; born at Stromstad, August 8, 1807; died 
at Stockholm, February 5, 1892. Her maiden 
name was Schmidt or Smith. During her childhood 
her talent for imaginative fiction was remarked by 
her friends ; but it was not until she learned that she 
could thereby help her parents, who were poor, that 
she began to write for money. She was married in 
1827 to Dr. Flygare; from whom she obtained a di- 
vorce, the union proving a very unhappy one. 
During her widowhood she published her novel 
Waldemar Klein (1838) ; and within a period of thir- 
teen years thereafter she had issued no less than 
twenty-two distinct productions. In 1841 she was 


married to the Swedish poet and author Johan Gabriel 
Carlen, who was a prominent lawyer of Stockholm. 
He died in 1875 J anc * thereafter Madame Carlen was 
known to the world mainly by what she had already 
written. Her works were very popular throughout 
Scandinavia; and many of them were translated into 
German and French. Among those which have ap- 
peared in English dress the principal are The Rose of 
Tistelon; The Confidential Clerk; A Year of Marriage; 
Alma; A Heroine of Romance; The Representative; In 
Six Weeks; A Night on Lake Buller; A Name; The 
Birthright; The Hermit; The Lover's Stratagem; Gus- 
tavus Lindurm; The Maiden's Tower; and Woman's 
Life. Her fictions, which are chiefly founded on the 
characteristics of the lower orders in Sweden, are 
especially rich and striking in incident. A prominent 
reviewer said, upon the appearance of The Rose of 
Tistelon: " Its authoress takes a firm grasp of the 
broad, actual life of her country as it flows in the cus- 
tomary channels, and places her reliance upon the 
universal passions and common sympathies of man- 
kind." . 


A keen December wind was rushing in hollow gusts 
through the waving branches of one of those solemn, 
gloomy forests which Sweden still possesses, and which 
remind the traveller of the dark woods of olden times 
which were supposed. to be the abode of mysterious and 
unearthly beings. With each blast of wind fell a mass 
of snow, in such thickness, that the branches of the forest 
trees were bent towards the ground so lowly bent that 
they seemed not to be able to raise themselves again; 
and soon all the trees stood so thoroughly enveloped in 
snow, from their tops to their roots, that each single one 
bore the appearance of a giant wrapped in his winding- 


sheet. The ground was already covered with snow, at 
least an ell in height. So great were the snow-drifts 
that high ground and low ground seemed levelled, as 
death levels the high and the low among human beings. 
But not a single gleam of moonlight shone upon this 
vast, undistinguishable, white world. 

A sort of faint light, however, did illuminate it, which 
neither resembled that emitted by the sun, the moon, or 
the stars, but was that uncertain, ghost-like lustre, aris- 
ing from the masses of glittering snow, which, if it could 
be likened to anything, might be supposed to resemble 
the pale lamps in the Valley of the Shadow of Death. 

A soft, murmuring tone, a low, whispered sound, vi- 
brated through the space. It was the distant hymn of 
praise, the divine service of the woods in midnight's 
solemn hour. But the midnight hour tolled as well fo? 
the weary travellers who were approaching, profaning, 
by their sharp, discordant voices, the Sabbath quiet of 
the forests. . . . 

Half-way up a long, gently sloping hill, there appeared 
a weary horse, that seemed totally to have given up all 
hope of ever reaching the top. It snorted in that pecu- 
liar, sharp, suffering tone, which human tongues are in- 
capable of uttering, which, however, has been given to 
animals to compensate for the power of speech. And 
yet, as if it knew all the obligation that weighed upon it, 
it labored painfully to get forward, although at every 
second step it almost fell. The man who was leading the 
cart unfortunately it was not a sledge: some miles off 
from this the travellers had taken it into their heads to 
make this dangerous exchange the man, we repeat, 
who was guiding this heavy, almost immovable machine, 
had an air of despondency; nay, nearly of despair. 

But it was evident that he was not anxious on his own 
account, for between the words of encouragement that 
he addressed to the horse, " Now, now, my Guldskon, a 
little further, just a little further/ 5 he would cast an in- 
quiring glance at the cart, as he murmured a few sub- 
dued words, such as, "Poor little thing, what terrible 
weather for her to come out ! " and, " No, no, all such 


delicate creatures should stay at home during the night 
there are many dangers at night." 

"The night, my friend, has no dangers for those who 
are out on important business/' answered a voice as 
firm and clear as if it had proceeded from a comfortable 

" No dangers, dear madame ? And suppose we are 
snowed up in this pathless wood; I have driven through 
it at least a hundred times, but not twice have I been in 
such a sad plight as at present." 

"If I had twice before been in so sad a plight, I 
would not be so afraid; this is the first time in my life 
that I have found myself in such a position, and yet 1 
am quite calm." 

"But suppose we are snowed up, I ask you again? 
Get on, Guldskon, get on ! " 

" We shall not be snowed up." 

" You have a wonderful stock of faith ; may our heav- 
enly Father grant that it may not lead you into misfor- 

" There is no danger of that, rest assured; a wife who 
is seeking her husband cannot possibly come to grief." 

"Hem! hem! Guldskon, are you quite ready?" 

Guldskon snorted and retreated backward. "Snort 
away, snort away ; I am holding on, and helping as much 
as I can you know that very well, Guldskon. It won't 
do ; you must get out, dear madame. The snow is enough 
to blind a person. I am afraid lest the horse should fall 
into the Sandvik pits. They are riot far from us to one 
side, although the snow prevents one from distinguishing 
a thing before one." 

The young woman who was inside the cart had in- 
stantly jumped out, and was now standing, over her knees 
in snow, on the other side of the horse, which she en- 
couraged and stroked with her hand as soon it had re- 
gained firm footing. 

" There is no help for it, you must walk a bit," said the 

driver ; *' we must spare the horse hold on by the shaft ; 

we will try by-and-by if it can draw us again? " And the 

young woman, who could be no one else than Jeanne 

VOL. V.7 


Sophie, walked forward courageously in the snow, bending 
her head patiently beneath each branch that obstructed 
her path. Not a single complaint, not a single murmur, 
escaped her lips. At length the even road was reached. 
The cart stopped still. And while Guldskon panted until 
he seemed to have exhausted his last breath, the peasant 
said to his companion who was going on in front, " Wait 
a while, dear madame, wait a while; you cannot go the 
whole way on foot." 

" I must continue to do so as long as I possibly can," 
replied Jeanne Sophie, with that concentrated energy 
which seeks to provide for every emergency. " If I now 
resume my seat in the cart, the wet and the cold will 
make me ill, and I have not time to be detained on the 

"That is all very well, but you cannot walk to our 
resting-place ; we have full half a mile to go yet." 

" I can do it quite well ; of course I can. I am young, 
I am strong; if not exactly strong in body, I have plenty 
of spirit and energy of mind; therefore I will not give 
way to effeminacy; I might have to pay too dearly for it 
if I did. Drive on, drive on." . . . Jeanne Sophie 
would not admit to herself that her strength was giving 

" I must," she said, " I must go on." . . . Jeanne 
Sophie tried in vain to proceed; she stumbled, and stum- 
bled, and almost fell at every step. Higher, always higher 
rose the snow. 

" An idea has struck me, dear madame ah, what a 
blessed thing thought is; it comes flying along just like 
the bird with the ear of corn in its beak." 

" What is your idea, good, honest old man, whom God 
has sent to me in my hour of need ? " 

" There, sit yourself comfortably down not far from 
here, towards the left, there is a small cabin; it will 
afford at least shelter and a fire, at which we can warm 

What power, what vitality, there lies in hope, in the 
mere word " hope ! " With a ray of hope Jeanne Sophie 
could endure everything. 



A quarter of an hour later all was as quiet and silent 
in the woods as it had been before. But within the little 
hut, with its blackened ceiling, its disagreeable atmos- 
phere, its smoking, crackling fire, sat upon a stool near 
the hearth a young girl, wrapped in warm clothing and 
deep in thought. The Guardian. 

|ARLETON, WILL, an American poet, journal- 
ist and lecturer; born at Hudson, Mich., 
October 21, 1845. He was educated at Hills- 
dale College; after which he lived for a time in 
Chicago, and then removed to Brooklyn, N. Y. He 
visited Europe in 1878 and in 1885, and travelled 
much in Canada and in the western and northern parts 
of the United States, where his lectures were well re- 
ceived. His ballads of domestic life have been very 
popular. These, with other works, include Poems 
(1871); Farm Ballads (1873); Farm Legends 
'(1875); Young Folks' Centennial Rhymes (1876); 
Farm Festivals (1881) ; City Ballads (1885); City 
Legends (1888); City Festimls (1889); Rhymes of 
Our Planet (1890); and The Old Infant (1892). 
It is often told by those who remember Carleton's boy- 
hood days at Hudson that while he was at work upon 
his father's farm in summer, and attending the district 
school during the winter, he would often practise 
oratory in the fields around the old log-cabin, with 
the horses, cattle, and sheep as hearers. In Out of the 
Old House, Nancy, he has described the house in 
which he was born " Kitchen and parlor and bed- 
room they had 'em all in all." It was the success 


of his poem Betsey and I Are Out, published in the 
Toledo Blade in 1871, which encouraged him to ex- 
change the profession of journalism for that of an 


Draw up the papers, lawyer, and make 'em good and 

stout ; 
For things at home are crossways, and Betsey and I are 


We, who have worked together so long as man and wife, 
Must pull in single harness for the rest of our nat'ral 


" What is the matter? " say you. I swan it's hard to tell ! 
Most of the years behind us we've passed by very well ; 
I have no other woman, she has no other man 
Only we've lived together as long as ever we can. 

So I have talked with Betsey, and Betsey has talked with 


And so we've agreed together that we can't never agree; 
Not that we've cat'ched each other in any terrible crime ; 
We've been a-gathering this for years, a little at a time. 

There was a stock of temper we both had for a start, 
Although we never suspected 'twould take us two apart; 
I had my various failings, bred in the flesh and bone : 
And Betsey, like all good women, had a temper of her 

The first thing I remember whereon we disagreed 
Was something concerning heaven a difference in our 

creed ; 
We arg'ed the thing at breakfast, we arg'ed the thing 

at tea, 
And the more we arg'ed the question the more we didn't 



And the next that I remember was when we lost a cow; 
She had kicked the bucket for certain, the question was 

only How ? 

I held my own opinion, and Betsey another had; 
And when we were done a talking we both of us was 


And the next that I remember, it started in a joke; 

For full a week it lasted, and neither of us spoke. 

And the next was when I scolded because she broke a 

And she said I was mean and stingy, and hadn't any souL 

And so that bowl kept pourin* dissensions in our cup; 
And so that blamed cow-critter was always a-comin' up; 
And so that heaven we arg'ed no nearer to us got, 
But it gave us a taste of somethin' a thousand times as 

And so the thing kept working and all the self-same 


Always somethin' to arg'e and somethin' sharp to say; 
And down on us came the neighbors, a couple dozen 

And lent their kindest sarvice to help the thing along 

And there has been days together and many a weary 

We was both of us cross and spunky, and both too proud 

to speak; 
And I have been thinkin' and thinkin', the whole of the 

winter and fall, 
If I can't live kind with a woman, why, then, I won't at 


And so I have talked with Betsey, and Betsey has talked 

with me, 

And we have agreed together that we can't never agree ; 
And what is hers shall be hers, and what is mine shall 

be mine; 
And I'll put in the agreement, and take it to her to 



Write on the paper, lawyer the very first paragraph 
Of all the farm and live-stock that she shall have her 

For she has helped to earn it through many a weary 

And it's nothing more than justice that Betsey has her 


Give her the house and homestead a man can thrive 

and roam; 

But women are skeery critters unless they have a home ; 
And I have always determined, and never failed to say, 
That Betsey never should want a home if I was taken 


There is a little hard money that's drawin' tol'rable 


A couple of hundred dollars laid by for a rainy day; 
Safe in the hands of good men, and easy to get at; 
Put in another clause there, and give her half of that. 

Yes, I see you smile, Sir, at my givin' her so much ; 
Yes, divorce is cheap, Sir, but I take no stock in such ! 
True and fair I married her, when she was blithe and 

And Betsey was al'ays good to me, exceptin' with her 


Once, when I was young as you, and not so smart, per- 

For me she mittened a lawyer and several other chaps ; 
And all of them was flustered, and fairly taken down, 
And I for a time was counted the luckiest man in town. 

Once when I had a fever I won't forget it soon 
I was hot as a basted turkey and crazy as a loon; 
Never an hour went by me when she was out of sight 
She nursed me true and tender, and stuck to me day 
and night. 


And if ever a house was tidy, and ever a kitchen clean, 
Her house and kitchen was tidy as any I ever seen ; 
And I don't complain of Betsey, or any of her acts, 
Exceptin' when we've quarrelled, and told each other 

So draw up the paper, lawyer, and Til go home tonight; 
And read the agreement to her, and see if it's all right; 
And then, in the mornin', I'll sell to a tradin' man I 

And kiss the child that was left to us, and out in the 

world I'll go. 

And^one thing in the paper, that first to me didn't occur: 
That when I am dead at last she'll- bring me back to her ; 
And lay me under the maples I planted years ago, 
When she and I was happy before we quarrelled so. 

And when she dies I wish that she would be laid by me, 
And, lyin' together in silence, perhaps we will agree; 
And if ever we meet in heaven, I wouldn't think it queer 
If we loved each other the better because we quarrelled 

Farm Ballads, 


"Flash" was a white-foot sorrel, an' run on Number 


Not much stable manners an average horse to see; 
Notional in his methods strong in loves an' hates ; 
Not very much respected, or popular 'mongst his mates. 

Dull an' moody an j sleepy, an' " off " on quiet days ; 
Full o' turbulent, sour looks, an' small, sarcastic ways; 
Scowled an' bit at his partner, and banged the stabk 

With other means intended to designate life a bore. 

But when, be 't day or night time, he heard the alarm- 
bell ring, 


Ee'd rush for his place in the harness with a regular 

tiger spring; 
An' watch, with nervous shivers, the clasp of buckle an* 

Until 'twas plainly evident he'd like to lend a hand. 

An* when the word was given, away he would rush and 


As if a thousand witches was rumplm' up his hair, 
An* craze the other horses with his magnetic charm, 
Till every hoof-beat sounded a regular fire alarm! 

Never a horse a jockey would notice and admire 

Like Flash in front of his engine a-runnin' to a fire; 

Never a horse so lazy, so dawdlin' an' so slack, 

'As Flash upon his return trip a-drawin 7 the engine back. 

Now, when the different horses gets tender-footed an' 

They 're no use in our business; so Flash was finally 


To quite a respectable milkman, who found it not so fine 
A-bossin' one o' God's creatures outside it's natural line. 

Seems as if I could see Flash a-mopin' along here now, 

Feelin' that he was simply assistant to a cow; 

But sometimes he'd imagine he heard the alarm-bell's 

An' jump an' rear for a season before they could hold 

him in. 

An' once, in spite o' his master, he strolled in 'mongst us 


To talk with the other horses, of former fires, perhaps; 
Whereat the milkman kicked him; whereat, us boys to 

He begged that horse's pardon upon his bended knees. 

But one day, for a big fire as we was makin' a dash, 
Both o' the horses we had on somewhat resemblin' Flash, 


Yellin' an' ringin' an' rushing with excellent voice an' 

We passed the poor old fellow a-tuggin' away at his 


If ever I see an old hoss grow upward into a new 
If ever I see a milkman whose traps behind him flew, 
Twas that old hoss, a-rearin' an' racin' down the track, 
An' that respectable milkman a tryin' to hold him back. 

Away he rushed like a cyclone for the head o' " Number 

Gained the lead an' kept it, an' steered his journey free ; 

Dodgin' wagons an' horses, an' still on the keenest " silk," 

An' furnishin' all that neighborhood with good, respect- 
able miljc. 

Crowd a-yellin j an' runnin', an' vainly hollerin' " Whoa 1" 
Milkman bracin' an' sawin', with never a bit o' show ; 
Firemen laughin' an' chuckling an' shoutin' "Good! go 

in ! " 
Hoss a gettin' down to it, an' sweepin' along like sin. 

Finally came where the fire was halted with a " thud ; n 
Sent the respectable milkman heels over head in mud; 
Watched till he see the engines properly workin' there, 
After which he relinquished all interest in the affair. 

Moped an' wilted an' dawdled, " faded away " once more, 
Took up his old occupation considerin' life a bore; 
Laid down in his harness, an* sorry I am to say 
The milkman he had drawn there took his dead body 

That's the whole o' my story; I've seen, more'n once 

or twice, 

That poor dead animal's actions is full o' human advice; 
An' if you ask what Flash taught, I'll simply answer, 

That poor old horse was a symbol of some intelligent 



An' i, as some consider, there's animals in the sky, 

I think the poor old fellow is gettin' another try ; 

But if he should sniff the big fire that plagues the abode 

o' sin, 

It'll take the strongest angel to hold the old fellow in. 

City Ballads* 

|ARLETON, WILLIAM, an Irish novelist; born 
at Prilli^k, County Tyrone, in 1794; died at 
Dublin, January 30, 1869^ After receiving 
his early education in a " hedge school," he set out 
for Munster, to complete his education as " a poor 
scholar." Homesickness and a disagreeable dream on 
the night after his setting out sent him back to his 
parents, and he spent the next two years in the labors 
and amusements of his native place, acquiring at 
wakes, fairs, and merrymakings a minute knowledge 
of Irish peasant life. At the age of seventeen he 
went to the academy of a relative at Glasslough, where 
he remained for two years. He afterward went to 
Dublin, seeking fortune, his capital on arriving being 
2s. gd. His Traits and Stories of the Irish Peas- 
antry, which appeared in 1830, was so warmly wel- 
comed, that in 1832 he published a second series. 
This proved as popular as the first, and Carleton's 
success as an author was assured. In 1835 ^ e P u b" 
lished Father Butler, and in 1839 Fardorougha,, the 
Miser, or the Convicts of Lisnamorna; The Fawn of 
Spring Vale; The Clarionet, and other Tales, of 
which The Misfortunes of Barney Branagan appeared 
in 1841, Valentine McClutchy., a novel (1846); The 


Black Prophet (1847); The Tithe Proctor (1849); 
The Squanders of Castle Squander (1852); Willy 
Reilly (1855); and The Evil Eye (1860). During 
the last years of his life Carleton received a pension 
of 200. 


Perhaps it would be impossible to conceive a more 
gloomy state of misery than that in which young M'Evoy 
found himself. Stretched on the side of the public road, 
in a shed formed of a few loose sticks covered over with 
" scraws," that is, the sward of the earth pared into thin 
stripes removed above fifty perches from any human 
habitation his body racked with a furious and oppres- 
sive fever his mind conscious of all the horrors by 
which he was surrounded without the comforts even 
of a bed or bed-clothes and, what was worst of all, 
those from whom he might expect kindness afraid to 
approach him ! Lying helpless, under the circumstances 
it ought not to be wondered at if he wished that death 
might at once close his extraordinary sufferings, and 
terminate the struggles which filial piety had prompted 
him to encounter. . . . 

Irishmen, however, are not just that description of 
persons who can pursue their usual avocations, and see 
a fellow-creature die without such attention as they can 
afford him; not precisely so bad as that, gentle reader! 
Jemmy had not been two hours on this straw when a 
second shed much larger than his own was raised within 
a dozen yards' of it In this a fire was lit; a small pot 
was then procured, milk was sent in, and such other 
little comforts brought together as they supposed neces- 
sary for the sick boy. Having accomplished these mat- 
ters, a kind of guard was set to watch and nurse-tend 
him; a pitchfork was got, on the prongs of which they 
intended to reach him bread across the ditch; and^ a 
long-shafted shovel was borrowed, on which to furnish 
him drink, with safety to themselves. That inextinguish- 
able vein of humor which in Ireland mingles even with 


death and calamity was also visible here. The ragged, 
half-starved creatures laughed heartily at the oddity of 
their own inventions, and enjoyed the ingenuity with 
which they made shift to meet the exigencies of the 
occasion without in the slightest degree having their 
sympathy and concern for the afflicted youth lessened. 
When their arrangements were completed, one of them 
(he of the scythe) made a little whey, which, in lieu 
of a spoon, he stirred with the end of his tobacco-pipe; 
he then extended it across the ditch upon the shovel, 
after having put it in a tin porringer. 

" Do you want a taste o' whay, avourneen ? " 

" Oh, I do," replied Jemmy ; " give me a drink, for 
God's sake." 

" There it is, a bouchal, on the shovel. Musha if myself 
rightly knows what side you're lyin' an', or I'd put it 
as near your lips as I could. Come, man, be stout, don't 
be cast down at all, at all; sure, bud-an-age, we're shov- 
elin' the whay to you, anyhow." 

" I have it," replied the boy " oh, I have it. May 
God never forget this to you, whoever you are." 

"Faith, if you want to know who I am, I'm Pether 
Connor, the mower, that's never seen to-morrow. Be- 
gorra, poor boy, you mustn't let your spirits down at 
all, at all. Sure the neighbors is all bint to watch an' 
take care of you May I take away the shovel ? an' 
they've built a brave, snug shed here beside yours, where 
they'll stay wid you time about until you get well. We'll 
feed you whay enough, bekase we've made up our minds 
to stale lots o' sweet milk for you. Ned Branagan an' 
I will milk Rody Hartigan's cows to-night, wid the help 
of God. Divil a bit sin in it, so there isn't, an ? if there 
is, too, be my soul, there's no harm in it anyway for 
he's but a nager himself, the same Rody. Now, won't 
you promise to keep your mind aisy when you know that 
we're beside you ? " 

" God bless you," replied Jemmy, " you've taken a 
weight off my heart; I thought I'd die wid nobody near 
me at all." 

" Oh, the sorra fear of it. Keep your heart up. We'll 


stale lots o' milk for you. Bad scran to the baste in the 
parish but we'll milk, sooner nor you'd want the whay, 
you crather you." . . . 

It would be utterly impossible to detail the affliction 
which our poor scholar suffered in this wretched shed 
for the space of a fortnight, notwithstanding the efforts 
of those kind-hearted people to render his situation com- 
fortable. The little wigwam they had constructed near 
him was never, even for a moment, during his whole ill- 
ness, without two or three persons ready to attend him. 
In the evening their numbers increased ; a fire was always 
kept burning, over which a little pot for making whey 
or gruel was suspended. At night they amused each 
other with anecdotes and laughter, and occasionally with 
songs, when certain that their patient was not asleep. 
Their exertions to steal milk for him were performed 
with uncommon glee, and related among themselves with 
great humor. These thefts would have been unneces- 
sary, had not the famine which then prevailed through 
the province been so excessive. The crowds that 
swarmed about the houses of wealthy farmers, sup- 
plicating a morsel to keep body and soul together, re- 
sembled nothing which our English readers ever had an 
opportunity of seeing. In such a state of things it was 
difficult to procure a sufficient quantity of milk to allay 
the unnatural thirst even of one individual, when parched 
by the scorching heat of a fever. Notwithstanding this, 
his wants were for the most part anticipated, so far as 
their means would allow them; his shed was kept water- 
proof, and either shovel or pitchfork always ready to be 
extended to him, by way of substitution for the right 
hand of fellowship. When he called for anything, the 
usual observation was, "Hush! the crathur's callhY; I 
must take the shovel an' see what he wants. . . ." 

On the morning of the last day he ever intended to 
spend in the shed, at eleven o'clock, he heard the sound 
of horses' feet passing along the road. The circumstance 
was one quite familiar to him ; but these horsemen, who- 
ever they might be, stopped, and immediately after two 
respectable looking men, dressed in black, approached 


him. His forlorn state and frightfully wasted appearance 
startled them, and the younger of the two asked, in a 
tone of voice which went directly to his heart, how it 
was that they found him in a situation so desolate. The 
kind interest implied by the words, and probably a sense 
of his utterly destitute state, affected him strongly, and 
he burst into tears. The strangers looked at each other, 
then at him; and if looks could express sympathy theirs 
expressed it. 

" My good boy," said the first, " how is it that we 
find you in a situation so deplorable and wretched as 
this? Who are you, or why is it that you have not a 
friendly roof to shelter you ? " 

"I'm a poor scholar," replied Jemmy, "the son of 
honest but reduced parents: I came to this part of the 
country with the intention of preparing myself for May- 
nooth, and, if it might plase God, with the hope of be- 
ing able to raise them out of their distress." 

The strangers looked more earnestly at the boy; sick- 
ness had touched his fine, intellectual features into a 
purity of expression almost ethereal. His fair skin ap- 
peared nearly transparent, and the light of truth and 
candor lit up his countenance with a lustre which afflic- 
tion could not dim. The other stranger approached him 
more nearly, stopped for a moment, and felt his pulse. 

"How long have you been in this country?" he in- 

" Nearly three years." 

"You have been ill of the fever which is so preva- 
lent; but how did you come to be left to the chance of 
perishing upon the highway ? " 

" Why, sir, the people were afraid to let me into their 
houses in consequence of the faver. I got ill in school, 
sir, but no boy would venture to bring me home, an' 
the master turned me out, to die, I believe. May God 
forgive him ! " . . . 

During the early part of the dialogue two or three 
old hats, or caubeens, might have been seen moving 
steadily over from the wigwam to the ditch which ran 
beside the shed occupied by M'Evoy. Here they re- 


mained stationary, for those who wore them were now 
within hearing of the conversation, and ready to give 
their convalescent patient a good word, should it be 
necessary. One of those who lay behind the ditch now 
arose, and, after a few hems and scratchings of the head, 
ventured to join In the conversation. 

" Pray, have you, my man," said the elder of the two, 
" been acquainted with the circumstances of this boy's 

" Is it the poor scholar, my Lord ? Oh thin, bedade 
t's meself that has that. The poor crathur was in a 
terrible way all out, so he was. He caught the faver in 
the school beyant, one day, an' was turned out by the 
sager o' the world that he was larnin' from." 

" Are you one of the persons who attended him ? " 

"Och, och, the crathur! what could unsignified peo- 
ple like us do for him, barrin' a thrifle? Anyhow, my 
Lord, it's the meracle o' the world that he was ever 
able to over it at all. Why, sir, good luck to the one of 
him but suffered as much, wid the help o' God, as 'ud 
overcome fifty men!" 

" How did you provide him with drink at such a dis- 
tance from any human habitation?" 

"Troth, hard enough we found it, Sir, to do that 
same; but sure, whether or not, my Lord, we couldn't 
be such nagers as to let him die all out, for want o' 
somethin' to moisten his throat wid." 

"I hope/' inquired the other, "you had nothing to 
do in the milk-stealing which has produced such an out- 
cry in the neighborhood?" 

" Milk-Stalin' ! Oh, bedad, Sir, there never was the 
likes known afore in the counthry. The Lard forgive 
them that did it! Begorra, Sir, the wickedness ^ o' the 
people's mighty improving if one 'ud take warnin' by it, 
glory be to God ! " 

" Many of the farmers' cows have been milked at night, 
Connor perfectly drained. Even my own cows have 
not escaped; and we who have suffered are certainly 
determined, if possible, to ascertain those who have com- 
mitted the theft. I, for my part, have gone even beyond 


my ability in relieving the wants of the poor during this 
period of sickness and famine; I therefore deserved this 
the less." 

" By the powdhers, your honor, if any gintleman de- 
sarved to have his cows unmilked, it's yourself. But, as 
I said this minute, there's no end to the wickedness o' 
the people, so there's not, although the Catechiz is against 
them; for, says it, 'there is but one Faith, one Church, 
an 3 one Baptism/ Now, Sir, is n't it quare that people 
wid sich words in the book afore them won't be guided 
by it? I suppose they thought it only a white sin, Sir, 
to take the milk, the thieves o' the world." 

" Maybe, your honor," said another, " that it was only 
to keep the life in some poor sick crature that wanted 
it more nor you or the farmers that they did it. There's 
some o' the same farmers deserve worse, for they're 
keepin' up the prices o' the male an' practise upon the 
poor, an' did so all along, that they might make money 
by our outher destitution." 

" That is no justification for theft/' observed the graver 
of the two. " Does any one among you suspect those 
who committed it in this instance? If you do I command 
you, as your Bishop, to mention them." 

" How, for instance," added the other, " were you able 
to supply this sick boy with whey during his illness?" 

" Oh, then, gintlemen," replied Connor, dexterously 
parrying the question, " but it's a mighty improvin 7 thing 
to see our own Bishop God spare his Lordship to 
us? an' the Protestant minister o* the parish joinin' 
together to relieve an' give good advice to the poor! 
Bedad, it's settin' a fine example, so it is, to the Quality, 
if they'd take patthern by it." 

" Reply," said the Bishop, rather sternly, " to the ques- 
tions we have asked you." 

"The quistons, your Lordship? It's proud an* happy 
we 'd be to do what you want; but the sorra man among 
us can do it, barrin' we 'd say what we ought not to say. 
That *s the thruth, my Lord; an' surely 'tis n't your 
Gracious Reverence that 'ud want us to go beyond that ? " 

" Certainly not," replied the Bishop. " I warn you 


against both falsehood and fraud; two charges which 
might frequently be brought against you in your inter- 
course with the gentry of the country, whom you sel- 
dom scruple to deceive and mislead by gliding into a 
character, when speaking to them, that is often the 
reverse of your real one; whilst, at the same time, you 
are both honest and sincere to persons of your own class. 
Put away this practice, for it is both sinful and dis- 

" God bless your Lordship ! an' many thanks to your 
Gracious Reverence for advisin' us ! Well we know that 
it's the blessed thing to folly your words." Traits and 
Sketches of Irish Life. 


One summer evening Mary Sullivan was sitting at her 
own well-swept hearthstone, knitting feet to a pair of 
sheep-gray stockings for Bartley, her husband. It was 
one of those serene evenings in the month of Jane 
when the decline of day assumes a calmness and repose, 
resembling what we might suppose to have irradiated 
Eden when our first parents sat in it before their falL 
The beams of the sun shone through the windows in 
clear shafts of amber light, exhibiting millions of those 
atoms which float to the naked eye within its mild ra- 
diance. The dog lay basking in his dream at her feet; 
and the gray cat sat purring placidly upon his back, 
from which even his occasion, il agitation did not dis- 
lodge her. 

Mrs. Sullivan was the wife of a wealthy farmer, and 
niece to the Rev. Felix O'Rourke; her kitchen was con- 
sequently large, comfortable, and warm. Over where 
she sat jutted out the " brace/' well lined with bacon ; 
to the right hung a well-scoured salt-box, and to the left 
was the jamb, with its little Gothic, paneless window to 
admit the light. Within it hung several ash rungs, 
seasoning for flail-sooples, or boulteens, a dozen of eel- 
skins, and several stripes of horse-skin, as hangings for 
them. The dresser was a "parfit white," and well fur- 
nished with the usual appurtenances. Over tlie door and 
VOL. V.-S 


on the " threshel," were nailed " for luck," two horse- 
shoes, that had been found by accident. In a little 
" hole " in the wall, beneath the salt-box, lay a bottle of 
holy water, to keep the place purified; and against the 
copestone of the gable, on the outside, grew a large 
lump of house-leek, as a specific for sore eyes and other 

In the corner of the garden were a few stalks of tansy 
" to kill the thievin' worms in the child hre, the crathurs," 
together with a little rose-noble, Solomon's seal, and 
bugloss, each for some medicinal purpose. The " lime 
wather " Mrs. Sullivan could make herself, and the " bog 
bane" for the link roe, or heart-burn, grew in their own 
meadow-drain; so that, in fact, she had within her reach 
a very decent pharmacopoeia, perhaps as harmless as that 
of the profession itself. 

Lying on the top of the salt-box was a bunch of fairy 
flax, and sewed in the folds of her own scapular was the 
duct of what had once been a four-leaved shamrock, an 
invaluable specific "for seein' the good people," if they 
happened to come within the bounds of vision. Over 
the door in the inside, over the beds, and over the cattle 
in the outhouses, were placed branches of withered palm, 
that had been consecrated by the priest on Palm Sunday; 
and when the cows happened to calve this good woman 
tied, with her own hands, a woollen thread about their 
tails to prevent them from being overlooked by evil 
eyes, or elf -shot by the fairies. . . It is unneces- 
sary to mention the variety of charms which she pos- 
sessed for that obsolete malady the colic, for toothaches, 
headaches, or for removing warts and taking motes out 
of the eyes; let it suffice to inform our readers that she 
was well stocked with them, and that, in addition to 
this, she, together with her husband, drank a potion made 
up and administered by an herb-doctor for preventing 
forever the slightest misunderstanding or quarrel between 
man and wife. Whether it produced this desirable object 
or not our readers may conjecture when we add that 
the herb-doctor, after having taken a very liberal ad- 
vantage of their generosity, was immediately compelled 


to disappear from the neighborhood, in order to avoid 
meeting with Hartley, who had a sharp lookout^ for him, 
not exactly on his own account, but " in regard," he said, 
"that it had no effect on Mary, at all, at all; 7 ' whilst 
Mary, on the other hand, admitted its efficacy upon her- 
self, but maintained that " Bartley was worse nor ever 
afther it' 1 The Lianhan Shee. 

ARD, seventh Earl of; an English politician 
and statesman; born at London, April 18, 
1802; died at Castle Howard, Yorkshire, December 
4, 1864, He was educated at Eton and Oxford, where 
he earned a reputation as a scholar and a writer of 
graceful verse, obtaining, in 1821, both the Chancellor's 
and the Newdigate prizes for a Latin and an English 
poem. In 1848 he succeeded to the peerage upon the 
death of his father, before which he was known under 
the courtesy title of Lord Morpeth. In 1826 he was 
returned to Parliament for the family borough of Mor- 
peth, retaining his seat until the disfranchisement of 
the borough by the Reform Bill of 1832. Under the 
administration of Lord Melbourne he was Chief Sec- 
retary for Ireland, under that of Lord John Russell 
Commissioner of Woods and Forests, and under that 
of Lord Palmerston Lord Lieutenant of Ireland. Be- 
tween 1842 and 1846 he visited the United States, and 
upon his return communicated his impressions of 
America to his countrymen in a series of lectures. He 
wrote a tragedy and a volume of poems, but his lite- 
rary reputation rests on his Diary in Turkish and Greek 
Waters, published in 1854. 



We then went to St. Sophia. This is the real sight of 
Constantinople; the point round which so much of history, 
so much of regret, so much of anticipation ever centre. 
Within that precinct Constantine, Theodosius, Justinian, 
worshipped, and Chrysostom preached, and, most affect- 
ing reminiscence of all, the last Constantine received the 
Christian sacrament upon the night that preceded his own 
heroic death, the capture of the imperial city, and the 
conquest of the Crescent over the Cross. Apart even 
from all associated interest, I was profoundly struck with 
the general appearance and effect of the building itself; 
the bold simplicity of plan, the noble span of the wide, 
low cupola, measuring, in its diameter, one hundred and 
fifteen feet, the gilded roofs, the mines of marble which 
encrust the walls ; that porphyry was from the Temple 
of the Sun at Baalbec ; that verde-antique was from the 
Temple of Diana at Ephesus. How many different strains 
have they not echoed The hymn to the Latoidae! The 
chant to the Virgin ! The Muezzin's call from the mina- 
ret! Yes; and how long shall that call continue? Are 
the lines marked along the pavement, and seats, and pul- 
pits, always to retain their distorted position, because they 
must not front the original place of the Christian high 
altar to the East, but must be turned to the exact direc- 
tion of Mecca? Must we always dimly trace in the over- 
laying fretwork of gold the obliterated features of the 
Redeemer? This is all assuredly forbidden by copious 
and cogent, even by conflicting, causes by old Greek 
memories by young Greek aspirations by the ambi- 
tion of states and sovereigns by the sympathy of Chris- 
tendom by the sure word of prophecy. Diary In Turk- 
ish and Greek Waters. 


CARLYLE, JANE WELSH, wife of Thomas 
Carlyle; born in Haddington, Scotland, July 
14, 1801; died at London, April 21, 1866. 
She was the daughter of John Welsh, a physician of 
eminence, who, dying at the age of forty-three, left 
his considerable estate to his daughter, then eighteen. 
Jane Welsh at once legally made everything over 
to her mother for her lifetime; so that, while a con- 
siderable prospective heiress, according to the esti- 
mation of the country and the time, she had during 
the lifetime of her mother only what the mother 
should see fit to allow her, precisely as she would 
have had from her father had he been living. While 
Jane Welsh was a bright and growing child Edward 
Irving was the master of the school at Hadding- 
ton and she was a favorite pupil. While she was a 
school-girl Irving became master of the school at 
Kirkcaldy. When he returned to Edinburgh, Jane 
Welsh had grown from a child to a young woman. 
The former acquaintanceship was revived, and a feel- 
ing of love sprang up between them: on her part 
"passionate/* as she afterward said; on his part at 
least honest and sincere. But in the meantime Irving 
had become betrothed to a daughter of Mr. Martin, 
the minister of Kirkcaldy. She would not relinquish 
her claim, and they were married. But before the 
parting between Irving and Jane Welsh, he had in- 
troduced Carlyle to her, and had asked him to aid her 
in her studies. Carlyle, knowing of Irving's relations 
to Miss Martin, formed an attachment for Jane 
Welsh. She, on her part, was strongly attracted to 
Carlyle, notwithstanding his unfashionable aspect and 


dubious prospects in life. An implied engagement 
of marriage ensued, which came near being broken 
off more than once by the impracticable nature of 
Carlyle, who insisted upon having everything even 
to household arrangements ordered to suit his 
moods or whims. However, matters settled them- 
selves, and the marriage took place in 1826, Carlyle 
being thirty-one years of age, his wife six years 

From this time the life of Jane Carlyle came to 
be mainly merged in that of her husband, though 
she had a strong individuality of her own. The main 
outward points of her life are that for a year and a 
half they lived at Comely Bank, in the suburbs of 
Edinburgh; then for some six years at Craigenput- 
tock, a wild moorland farm, belonging really to Mrs. 
Carlyle, though nominally to her mother; then in 1834 
they went to London, and took a modest house in 
Chelsea, then a suburb of the great city, but now 
almost in its very heart. This house was their home 
through the ensuing thirty years during which Jane 
Carlyle lived, and that of Thomas Carlyle for the 
fifteen years more during which he survived her. 

Jane Carlyle died suddenly. Early in 1866 her hus- 
band had been chosen Lord Rector of the University 
of Edinburgh. He had gone thither to deliver his 
Inaugural Address, and was to come home in a day 
or two. On April 21, his wife, having posted a pleas- 
ant note to her husband, went out for a drive in Hyde 
Park. After an hour or two the coachman, having 
received no orders for returning, looked into the car- 
riage. Mrs. Carlyle sat there dead, with her hands 
folded upon her lap. 


The readers of Froude's Life of Carlyle would sup- 
pose that the marriage of Jane Welsh and Thomas 
Carlyle was an ill-judged and unhappy one. There 
were certainly annoyances not a few. He was tor- 
mented with a chronic dyspepsia, and ever magnify- 
ing to the utmost those petty annoyances in life which 
most men would consider too trifling to be spoken of. 
She was sharp of tongue, with a nervous system shat- 
tered and sensitive to the extreme. He, in his bad 
moods, was morose or sulky; she, in her irritable 
moods, was sharp-spoken and petulant. Yet, when 
all is told, the result is that the long married life 
of Jane and Thomas Carlyle was, on the whole, a 
happy one. Each bore with the failings of the other 
as best they could, and, on the whole, with mutual 
love and esteem. Once, indeed, Mrs. Carlyle is cred- 
ibly reported to have said to a friend : " Don't marry 
a genius; I have married one, and I am miserable." 
Two things from the pens of each of them should tell 
all that need be known on this point. In 1837, eleven 
years after their marriage, Jane Carlyle thus writes to 
the mother of her husband, who had just come back 
to London after a visit to Scotland : 


My Dear Mother: You know the saying, " It is not lost 
which a friend gets;" and in the present case it must 
comfort you for losing him. Moreover, you have others 
behind, and I have only him only him in the whole 
wide world to love me and take care of me poor 
little wretch that I am. Not but that numbers of people 
love me, after their fashion, far better than I deserve. 
But then his fashion is so different from all these, and 
seems alone to suit the crotchetty creature that I am. 
Thank you, then, in the first place, for having been kind 


enough to produce him into the world; and for having, 
in the second place, made him scholar enough to recognize 
my various excellencies ; and for having, in the last place, 
sent him back to me, again to stand by me in this cruel 
east wind. 

It was thirty years save one after this that Thomas 
Carlyle wrote this epitaph, to be inscribed upon the 
tombstone of his wife she being just dead: 


Here likewise now rests Jane Welsh Carlyle, spouse 
of Thomas Carlyle, Chelsea, London. She was born at 
Haddington, July 14, 1801, only daughter of John Welsh 
and of Grace Welsh, Caplegill, Dumfriesshire, his wife. 
In her bright career she had more sorrows than are com- 
mon; but also a soft invincibility, a clearness of discern- 
ment, a noble loyalty of heart, which are rare. For forty 
years she was the true and ever-loving helpmate of her 
husband, and by act and word unweariedly forwarded 
him, as none else could, in all of worthy work that he did 
or attempted. She died at London, April 21, 1866; sud- 
denly snatched away from him, and the light of his life 
as if gone out. 

Mrs. Carlyle early in life had high literary aspira- 
tions. Those who knew her in after years believed 
her to have the highest literary capacity. It seems to 
have been understood by her friends that she was at 
the time of her death engaged in writing, a novel. 
"Who now will finish her book?" asked Dickens. 

" She is far above all our writing women," wrote 
Forster. But there is no trace of any such book. 
Nothing from her pen was ever published during her 
lifetime. Not long after her death her husband col- 
lected and briefly annotated many of her private let- 
ters to him and to others. These, however, were not 



published until after the death of Carlyle, when Mr. 
Froude gave them to the world. They are, in the 
strictest sense, private letters, touching wholly upon 
the details of every-day life. The first of these letters 
was written in 1834, soon after the Carlyles had es- 
tablished their modest home in London. 


Our little household has just been set up again at a 
quite moderate expense of money and trouble, wherein 
I cannot help thinking, with a chastened vanity, that the 
superior shiftiness and thriftiness of the Scottish char- 
acter has strikingly manifested itself. The English 
women turn up the whites of their eyes, and call on the 
"good heavens" at the bare idea of enterprises which 
seem to be in the most ordinary course of human affairs. 
I told Mrs. Hunt one day I had been very busy painting. 
"What!" she asked, "is it a portrait?" "Oh, no," I 
told her. "Something of more importance- a large 
wardrobe." She could not imagine, she said, "how I 
could have patience for such things." And so, having no 
patience for them herself what is the result? She is every 
other day reduced to borrow my tumblers, my teacups; 
even a cupful of porridge, a few spoonfuls of tea, are 
begged from me, because ** Missus has got company," and 
happens to be out of the article: in plain English because 
" Missus " is the most wretched of managers, and is often 
at the point of not having a copper in her purse. . . . 
On the whole, though the English ladies seem to have 
their wits more at their finger-ends, and have a great 
advantage over me in that respect, I never cease to be 
glad that I was born on the other side of the Tweed, and 
that those who are nearest and dearest to me are Scotch. 
To Carlyle' s Mother. 


Of late weeks [August, 1835] Carlyle has been getting 
on better with his writing, which has been uphill work 


since the burning of the first manuscript. I do not think 
the second version is, on the whole, inferior to the first 
It is a little less vivacious than the first, perhaps, but 
better thought and put together. One chapter more 
brings him to the end of his second " first volume," and 
then we shall sing a Te Deum and get drunk for which, 
by the way, we have unusual facilities at present, a friend 
having yesterday sent us a present of a hamper (some 
six or seven pounds' worth) of the finest old Madeira 
wine. To Mrs. Aitkin. 


He is to deliver [May, 1837] a course of Lectures on 
German Literature to "Lords and Gentlemen," and 
"Honorable Women not a few." You wonder how he 
is to get through with such a thing. So do I, very sin- 
cerely; the more, as he proposes to speak these lectures 
extempore Heaven bless the mark having, indeed, no 
leisure to prepare them before the time at which they will 
be wanted. One of his lady-admirers (by the way, he 
is getting a vast number of lady-admirers) was saying 
the other day that the great danger to be feared for him 
was that he should commence with " Gentlemen and 
Ladies ! " instead of " Ladies and Gentlemen ! " a trans- 
mutation which would ruin him at the very outset. He 
vows, however, that he will say neither the one thing 
nor the other: and I believe him very sincere on that 
side. Indeed, I should as soon look to see gold pieces 
or penny loaves drop out of his mouth as to hear from 
it any such hum-drum, unrepublican commonplace. If he 
finds it necessary to address his audience by any particu- 
lar designation, it will be thus : " Men and Women 1 " or 
perhaps, in my Penfillan grandfather's style, "Fool-crea- 
tures, come here for diversion ! " On the whole, if his 
hearers be reasonable, and are content that there be good 
sense in the things he says, without requiring that he 
should furnish them with the brains to find it out, I have 
no doubt but that his success will be eminent. To John 



To day [April 13, 1845] Count D J Orsay walked in. 
I had not seen him for four or five years. Last time I 
saw him he was as gay in his colors as a humming-bird : 
blue satin cravat, blue velvet waistcoat, cream-colored 
coat, lined with velvet of the same hue; trousers also 
of a bright color, I forget what; white French gloves; 
two glorious breastpins attached by a chain, and length 
enough of gold watch-guard to have hanged himself in. 
To-day, in compliment to his five more years, he was 
all in black and brown: a black satin cravat, a brown 
velvet waistcoat, a brown coat, some shades darker than 
the waistcoat, lined with velvet of its own shade, and 
almost black trousers ; one breastpin, a large, pear-shaped 
pearl set into a little cup of diamonds, and only one fold 
of gold chain round his neck, tucked together right on 
the centre of his spacious breast, with one magnificent 
turquoise. Well! that man understands his trade; if it 
be but that of a dandy, nobody can deny that he is a 
perfect master of it; that he dresses himself with con- 
summate skill. A bungler would have made no allowance 
for five more years at his time of life [forty-seven years] ; 
but he had the fine sense to perceive how much better 
his dress of to-day sets off the slightly enlarged figure 
and slightly worn complexion than the humming-bird 
colors would have done. Poor D r Orsay! he was born 
to be something better than even the King of Dandies. 
He did not say nearly so many clever things this time 
as on the last occasion. His wit, I suppose, is of that 
sort which belongs more to animal spirits than to real 
genius, and his animal spirits seem to have fallen off 
many degrees. The only thing that fell from him to-day 
worth remembering was his account of a mask he had 
seen of Charles Fox, " all punched and flattened, as if he 
had slept in a book." 

Lord Jeffrey came in, unexpected, while the Count was 
here. What a difference! The Prince of Critics and 
the Prince of Dandies. How washed-out the beautiful, 


dandiacal face looked beside that little clever old man's 
[Jeffrey was seventy-two years old]. The large blue, 
dandiacal eyes, you would have said, had never contem- 
plated anything more interesting than the reflection of 
the handsome personage they pertained to, in the looking- 
glass; while the dark, penetrating ones of the other had 
been taking notes of most things in God's Universe, even 
seeing a good way into millstones. From Note Book. 

Only one thing written by Jane Welsh Carlyle 
which can by any possibility be supposed to have been 
intended for publication is known to exist. In the 
autumn of 1837 sne sent to J^ n Sterling the 
house- friend of her husband and herself a graceful 
little piece, entitled The Watch and the Canary-Bird. 
Accompaying this sketch was a note, referring to a 
preceding essay, in which she says : " You are on no 
account to understand that by either of these dialogians 
I mean to shadow forth my own personality. I think 
it not superfluous to give you this warning, because 
I remember you talked of Chico's philosophy of life 
as my philosophy of life which was a horrible 
calumny/' It is clear that this dialogue was not the 
first and there is no reason to suppose that it was re- 
newed by any other. It would seem that Mrs. Car- 
lyle made a little mystery of these pieces, even with 
her husband. 


Watch. " Chirp, chirp, chirp ! " What a weariness 
thou art with thy chirping! Does it never occur to thee, 
frivolous thing, that life is too short to be chirped away 
at this rate? 

Bird. Never. I am no Philosopher, but just a plain 
Canary bird. 

Watch. At all events, thou art a Creature of Time, 


that has been hatched, and that will surely die. And, 
such being the case, methinks thou art imperatively called 
upon to think more, and to chirp less. 

Bird. I " called upon to think 1 " How do you make 
that out? Will you be kind enough to specify how my 
condition would be improved by thought? Could thought 
procure me one grain of seed or one drop of water beyond 
what my mistress is pleased to give? Could it procure 
me one-eighth of an inch, one hair's-breadth more room, 
to move about in? Or could it procure me to be hatched 
over again, with better auspices, in fair, green wood, 
beneath the blue, free sky? I imagine not Certainly 
I never yet betook myself to thinking, instead of singing, 
that I did not end in dashing wildly against the wires of 
my cage, with the sure loss of feathers, and at the peril 
of limb and life. No, no, in this very conditional world, 
depend upon it, he that thinks least will live the longest; 
and song is better than sense for carrying one handsomely 

Watch. You confess, then, without a blush, that you 
have no other aim in existence than to kill time. 

Bird. Just so. If I were not always killing of time, 
Time, I can tell you, would speedily kill me. Heigh-ho! 
I wish you had not interrupted me in my singing. 

Watch. Thou sighest, Chico; there is a drop of bit- 
terness at the bottom of this froth of levity. Confess 
the truth; thou art not without compunction as to thy 
course of life. 

Bird. Indeed, but I am though. It is for the Power 
that made me, and placed me here, to feel compunctidsv 
if any is to be felt For me, I do but fulfil my destiny. 
In the appointing of it I had no hand. It was with no 
consent of mine that I ever was hatched. . . . Npr 
yet was it with consent of mine that I was made to dep&gj 
for subsistence not upon my own faculties and exertions, 
but on the bounty of a fickle mistress, who starves me 
at one time and surfeits me at another. Deeply, from my 
inmost soul, have I protested, and do protest, against all 
this. If, then, the chirping with which I stave off sorrow 
and ennui be an offence to the would-be wise, it is not I, 


but Providence, should bear the blame, having placed me 
in a condition where there is no alternative but to chirp 
or die; and at the same time made self-preservation the 
first instinct of all living things. 

Watch. Unhappy Chico ! Not in thy circumstances, 
but in thyself, lies the impediments over which thou 
canst not gain the mastery. The lot thou complainest of 
so petulantly is, with slight variations, the lot of all. 
Thou art not free. Tell me who is. Alas, my bird; here 
sit prisoners; there also do prisoners sit. This world 
is all a prison, the only difference for those who inhabit 
it being in the size and aspect of their cells. . . . 

Bird. With all due reverence for thy universal insight 

picked up, Heaven knows how, in spending thy days 
at the bottom of a dark fob I must continue to think 
that the birds of the air, for example, are tolerably free ; 
at least, they lead a stirring, pleasurable sort of life, which 
well may be called freedom in comparison with this of 
mine. . . . Would that the egg I was hatched from 
had been addled, or that I had perished while yet un- 
fledged! I am weary of life, especially since thou hast 
constituted thyself my spiritual adviser. Ay de mi! 
But enough of this ! It shall never be told that I died the 
death of Jenkins's hen. " Chico, point de fdiblesse! " 

Watch. It were more like a Christian to say, " Heaven 
be my strength ! " 

Bird. And pray, what is a Christian? I have seen 
Poets, Philosophers, Politicians, Blue-stockings, Philan- 
thropists all sorts of notable persons about my mis- 
tress; but no Christians, so far as I am aware. 

Watch. Bird ! thy spiritual darkness exceeds belief. 
What can I say to thee? I wish I could make thee wiser 


Bird. If wishes were saws, I should request you to 
saw me a passage through these wires; but wishes being 
simply wishes, I desire to be let alone of them. 

Watch. Good counsel at least is not to be neglected 
and I give thee the best, wouldst thou but lay it to heart. 
. . . Ah, Chico, in pining for the pleasures and ex- 
citements which lie beyond these wires, take also into 


account the perils and hardships. Think what the bird 
of the air has to suffer from the weather, from boys and 
beasts, and even from other birds. Storms and snares 
and unknown woes beset it at every turn, from all which 
you have been mercifully delivered by being once for all 
cooped up here. 

Bird. There is one known woe, however, from which 
I have not been delivered in being cooped up here; and 
that is your absolute wisdom and impertinent interfer- 
ence from which same I pray Heaven to take me with 
all convenient speed. If ever I attain to freedom, trust 
me, the very first use I shall make of it will be to fly 
where your solemn, prosy tick shall not reach me any 
more forever. Evil befall the hour when my mistress 
and your master took it into their heads to swear " eternal 
friendship/' and so occasion a juxtaposition between us 
two which Nature could never have meant. 

Watch. My " Master ? " Thou imbecile ! I own no 
master: rather am I his mistress, of whom thou speak- 
est. Nothing can he do without appealing to me as to 
a second better conscience: and it is I who decide for 
him when he is incapable of deciding for himeslf. I 
say to him, " It is time to go/' and he goeth ; or, " There 
is time to stay," and he stayeth. Hardly is he awake in 
the morning when I tick authoritatively into his ear 
" Leves-vous, Monsieur! Vous avez des grandes chases 
a faire!" and forthwith he gathers himself together to 
enjoy the light of a new day if no better there may 
be. ... Ay, and when the night is come, and he 
lays himself down to sleep, I take my place at his bed- 
head, and, like the tenderest nurse, tick him to respose. 

Bird. And suppose that he neglected to wind thee up, 
or that thy mainspring chanced to snap! What would 
follow then? Would the world stand still in conse- 
quence? Would thy Master for such he is to all in- 
tents and purposes He forever in bed, expecting this 
Levez-vous? Would there be nothing in the wide uni- 
verse besides thee to tell him what o'clock it was. Im- 
pudent piece of mechanism! depend upon it, for all so 
much as thou thinkest of thyself, thou couldst be done 


without. II n'y a point de montre necessaire! The arti- 
san who made thee with files and pincers could make a 
thousand of thee to order. Cease, then, to deem thyself 
a fit critic for any living soul. Tick on, with infallible 
accuracy, sixty ticks to the minute through all eternity, 
if thou wiltst, and canst, but do not expect such as have 
hearts in their breasts to keep time with thee. A heart 
is a spontaneous, impulsive thing, which cannot, I would 
have thee know, be made to beat always at one measure- 
ment rate for the good pleasure of any timepiece that 
was ever put together. And so good-day to thee; for 
here comes one who thank Heaven will put thee 
into his fob, and so end our tete-a-tete. 

Watch (with a sigh). The living on earth have much 
to bean 

JYLE, JOHN AITKEN, a Scottish physician, 
younger brother of Thomas Carlyle; born at 
Ecclefechan, Scotland, July 7, 1801 ; died at 
Dumfries, December 15, 1879. After attending the 
school at Annan, he studied medicine in Edinburgh, 
and afterward in Germany. During these years he 
was aided by his brother, whose own means were 
quite limited. In 1830 he went to London, hoping 
to enter upon the career of a man of letters, from 
which he was strongly dissauded by his brother, who 
urged him to cling to the profession of medicine. 
He was wholly unsuccessful in his literary attempts, 
and also for a whil in his efforts to establish him- 
self as a physician. In 1831 he was introduced by 
Jeffrey to the Countess of Clare, an excellent woman 
of thirty-five, of large fortune, who had separated 
from her husband, than Governor of Bombay. She 


proposed to visit Italy, and was on the lookout for 
a suitable travelling physician. She was pleased with 
the cheery young Scotchman called by his friends 
" Lord Moon/' on account of his round, ruddy face 
and engaged him, at a salary of 300 guineas a year, 
besides his travelling expenses. From that time John 
Carlyle was a prosperous man, and the first use which 
he made of his money was to repay the considerable 
sum which he had received from his brother. He 
also was liberal to his mother, who had been left a 
widow in somewhat straitened circumstances. Dr. 
Carlyle retained his position with the Countess of 
Clare, both in Italy and in England, until 1843, when 
he married and took up his residence in Scotland. 
The noted Lady Holland had invited him to become 
her physician-in-ordinary ; but Thomas Carlyle urged 
his brother to decline, as Lady Holland was "a 
wretched, unreasonable, tyrannous old creature." 
John Carlyle finally located at Dumfries, where, his 
wife having died, he practised his profession with 
success, acquiring a considerable estate, the greater 
part of which was left by him to maintain bursaries 
for medical students, in connection with the Univer- 
sity of Edinburgh. 

John Carlyle possessed very considerable literary 
talent; but he was constitutionally indolent, and pro- 
duced only one work, a translation into prose of the 
Inferno of Dante, accompanied by admirable explana- 
tory notes and other critical apparatus.' The work 
was commenced as early as 1832, but was not pub- 
lished until 1849. He proposed in like manner to 
edit and translate the whole of the Divina Commedia, 
"sending forth," as he says in the Preface, "this 
VOL. V.-9 


first volume complete in itself by way of experi- 
ment;" the experiment was in every way a successful 
one, but the proposed work was carried no further. 
Of Dante and his poems, Dr. Carlyle says : 


The whole works of Dante, in prose and verse, if 
separated from the unwieldy commentaries and disserta- 
tions that have been accumulating round them ever since 
his death, might be comprised in two moderate volumes. 
The mere language of his Italian works is not difficult: 
all the greatest of his countrymen, in their successive 
generations, from the commencement of the fourteenth 
century, have been familiar with its expressive forms, 
and have contributed to keep them current in the very 
heart of Italian literature. Some few words have become 
obsolete, some phrases require explanation; but on the 
whole the speech of Dante comes wonderfully entire 
across the five centuries, and all the most beautiful 
passages are still quite fresh and clear. This is more 
especially true in regard to the great Poem which stands 
as the mature representative of his genius, the essence 
and consummation of all that he had endeavored and 
attained. . . . 

The main obstruction in reading Dante arises from 
our ignorance of the persons and things amidst which 
he wrote. The whole time-basis of his mighty song has 
become dim and cold. The names and events, which 
once stirred and inflamed the thoughts of all readers, lie 
far distant, and have little or no intrinsic interest for us. 
Most of them have grown so dark and shadowy that 
they cannot by any effort be made to dwell in our mem- 
ories; and so, by demanding constant notes and refer- 
ences, they serve only to interrupt our reading, and pre- 
vent us from rising to the full height and warmth of 
the subject. The great Poem, we soon feel, must have 
taken a more direct and earnest hold of the age from 
which it comes, than any other poem, ancient or modern; 


and for that reason alone it stands more in need of 
explanations. But it is likewise distinguished for its 
intense brevity, its multiform significance ; and can have 
had no superfluous words even for its nearest contem- 
poraries. The language throughout the whole poem, to 
those who are duly prepared for it, has a tone of plain 
familiarity which comes home to the subject with mar- 
vellous sequency and effect. It is like the language of 
a brother, whose position and feelings we are under- 
stood to know in detail; and who handles only the sum- 
mits of things with us, leaving to us all the filling up 
of circumstances and the minuter shades and ramifica- 
tions of meaning. . . . 


The process of breaking in pieces the harmony and 
quiet force of the Original, and having to represent it 
so helplessly and inadequately in another language, has 
been found as painful as was anticipated, and the notes 
as hard to compress ; but from the beginning to the end 
all the difficulties of the task have been honestly fronted; 
and readers who are already familiar with Dante and his 
commentators will be able to estimate the quantity of 
labor required for the performance of it. ... It only 
remains for me to add that the comment given in the 
present volume is defined and limited by one simple rule : 
In attempting to lessen the difficulties above mentioned, 
and bring the great Poem nearer by explaining its ma- 
terial and temporary elements, I have endeavored to 
imitate the Author's own economy of words, as far as 
consistent with prosaic clearness, and strictly suppressed 
what seemed irrelevant. 

A few pages of the Preface are devoted to what 
is really an exhaustive essay upon the " Position and 
Form of Hell," as imagined by Dante, and seen by 
him in his journey through it. As originally printed, 
every statement made by Dr. Carlyle is verified by 


citation of the passage in Dante upon which the state- 
ment is based. We omit these citations, resting upon 
Carlyle's authority for the truthfulness of the picture. 


Our Earth rests " forever fixed and stable " in the 
centre of Dante's universe, and the Heavens, with their 
Planets and Stars, go revolving round it. Only a com- 
paratively small portion of it was known to be inhabited 
in his time, and that he calls "the uncovered part," or 
"the great dry land;" and, following the Bible, he places 
Jerusalem in the centre of it, or "in the midst of the 
nations." Immediately below the dry land lies his Hell, 
as a kind of sink into which all Sin and Misery fall. 
The successive generations of men stand, as it were, on 
a thin earth-rind, with the Heavenly Stars above them, 
and the " Dark Valley" of Hell beneath. And the Cross 
on Mount Calvary, where the Divine Man was " con- 
sumed" for their transgressions, points from the centre 
of their temporary dwelling-place to those same "beauti- 
ful Stars," wherein the "blessed people" dwell forever, 
and to the all-including Empyrean, which is the " City 
and High Seat of that Emperor who rules above, and 
rules in every part," throughout the universe. And the 
" Realm of Sorrow " converges beneath toward its " Em- 
peror," Satan, who has his seat at the very centre of 
the Earth, or lowest point of space. And all light and 
heat, all wisdom and love, and strength come from the 
Stars or Heavens, and return to them; all cold and dark- 
ness, all ignorance and hatred, and weakness, come from 
the Evil One, and also return to him. He is planted at 
the bottom of Hell, fixed in eternal Darkness and eternal 
Ice, his head, with its three emblematic faces, pointing 
to Jerusalem, and his feet toward the Mount of Purga- 
tory, which is the exact antipode of Jerusalem. . . . 

The Hell itself is an immense, obscure, circular cavern, 
becoming narrower and narrower by successive degrees 
as it goes deeper. The general form is that of an in- 
verted cone, which has its base toward "the great drj 


land," and its apex at the centre of the earth. The sides 
of it, in which Dante's road lies, are occupied by a series 
of horizontal Circles, or Circular Stages mostly sep- 
arated from one another by precipitous descents, and 
gradually diminishing in size, like the rows of an amphi- 
theatre. These circles are nine in number, with various 
subdivisions in the lowest three of them; all of which 
are fully described in their proper places. 

John Carlyle thus brings to an end this brief es- 
say upon Dante and that Hell which he created : 


The great leading ideas of this Hell of Dante are not 
borrowed ideas, but are the result of all that he has 
learned, and seen, and known. Visions of the future 
world had indeed been common among Heathens and 
Christians before, and were still common in his own 
time; but these visions are generally of the most inco- 
herent, dim, and fragmentary description, and could sug- 
gest little or nothing, except that the minds of serious 
men had long been exercised with such things. Dante 
was familiar with all the materials of the Middle Ages, 
and also with the worth and wisdom of the Ancients 
whom he sees face to face in that Limbo of his; and he 
openly nay, purposely takes every document within 
his reach. 

And it is not so much by what has been loosely called 
Invention, as by true and clear recognition of the Nature 
of Things in that age of his, by unerring discrimination 
of what is significant from what is insignificant, and by 
boundless diligence withal, that he constructs an original 
and enduring work. In his inmost heart the scattered 
incidents gradually cohere, and expand, and become a 
living whole fit for utterance. The " Sacred Poem for 
many years has made him lean ;" and it is upon condition 
of his not being a " timid friend to Truth " that he ex- 
pects to live among future generations. He has got 
infinitely beyond all the wretched factions of the Guelphs 


and Ghibellines of his time, and seen the very roots of 
their sin and misery. The flaming Realities of Eternity 
stand visible on every side of him, and have taught him 
the " Straight Way," and given him power to measure 
the dimensions of all Popes and Kaisers, and estimate 
them by a standard which " conquers every error." And 
his earthly life, too, with all its sadness, has thereby 
become " bright," and " clear," and unspeakably precious ; 
and even in Hell he recognizes all the good qualities of 
those that are condemned. There is nothing more touch- 
ing in the whole poem than the brief, simple way in 
which he makes them allude to the " clear, beautiful life," 
the "bright world," the "sweet air, gladdened by the 
sun," the "beauteous stars," etc. 

CARLYLE, THOMAS, a Scottish essayist, critic 
and historian; born at Ecclefechan, Decem- 
ber 4, 1795 ; died at London, February 4, 1881. 
His father, a devout elder in the kirk, was a stone- 
mason who subsequently farmed several small pieces 
of land. Thomas, the eldest son by a second marriage, 
was sent at the age of fourteen to the University of 
Edinburgh. He was already fairly grounded in Latin, 
and mathematics, and read French with facility. 
Having completed his four years' course at the Uni- 
versity, he was for two years mathematical tutor at 
Annan, then for two years more master of a new 
school at Kirkcaldy, set up in opposition to the old 
school, of which Edward Irving was master. The 
two young men, natives of the same district, had oc- 
casionally met at Edinburgh; but they first became 
fairly acquainted at Kirkcaldy, and a warm friend- 
ship sprang up between them. In 1818 Irving and 


Carlyle went back to Edinburgh, intent upon finding 
some other career in life. 

Carlyle had been destined by his pious father for 
the ministry of the Kirk of Scotland, and had already 
entered himself as a Student of Divinity. He could 
study for six years where he pleased, but must present 
himself every year at Edinburgh, and deliver a dis- 
course before the Faculty and students. Carlyle went 
up twice for this purpose. On the first occasion he 
delivered a sermon in English, and on the second a 
prelection in Latin. He had made up his mind that 
whatever he might come to be, he could not be a min- 
ister in the Kirk of Scotland. This resolve cost him 
many struggles ; and to these he was wont to attribute 
that chronic dyspepsia which harassed him, more or 
less, during the remaining threescore years of his life, 
and had much to do in shaping his character. Forty 
years later, an American friend asked him about this 
dyspepsia of his, and how it came upon him, to which 
questions Carlyle thus replied : 


Fore one or two or three and twenty years of my 
mortal life I was not conscious of the ownership of that 
diabolical arrangement called a stomach. I had been 
destined by my father and my father's minister to be my- 
self a Minister of the Kirk of Scotland. But, now that 
I had gained the years of man's estate, I was not sure 
that I believed the doctrines of my father's Kirk, and 
it was needful that I should now settle it. And so I 
entered into my chamber and closed the door. And 
around about me there came a trooping throng of phan- 
toms dire, from the abysmal depths of nethermost perdi- 
tion. Doubt, Fear, Unbelief, Mockery, and Scoffing were 
there, and I wrestled with them in the travail and agony 


of spirit Thus was it for weeks. Whether I ate I know 
not; whether I slept I know not; but I only know that 
when I came forth again beneath the glimpses of the 
moon, it was with the direful persuasion that I was the 
miserable owner of a diabolical apparatus called a Stom- 
ach. And I never have been free from that knowledge 
from that hour to this ; and I suppose that I never shall 
be until I am laid away in my grave. 

During the four years of his pedagogy Carlyle had 
saved about 90. This he had when he went back 
to Edinburgh; and upon it he could live until he 
should " fall into some other way of doing." He 
earned something by taking pupils, and by writing 
papers for Brewster's Cyclopedia; so that he was able 
to keep his 90 intact for future emergencies. Still 
things wore such an unpromising aspect at home that 
he had in mind to migrate to America, and see what 
the New World had to offer him. 

In the meantime Irving had, in 1822, gone to Lon- 
don and entered upon his brilliant career as Minister 
at the Caledonian Chapel in Hatton Street, Among 
his hearers was Mrs. Buller, the wife of a wealthy 
Londoner, who had in mind to send her sons to study 
at Edinburgh, She asked Irving to recommend a 
tutor for them. He named Carlyle, to whom the place 
was offered, and by whom it was accepted. The sal- 
ary was 200 a year ; the duties were not onerous ; the 
tutor had much of the day and all of the evenings at 
his own disposal. The boys were nice lads ; the eldest 
of them Charles Buller came 1 near making a great 
name for himself; when he died in 1848, at the age 
of forty-two, he was thought by many to be the " most 
rising man in England." Carlyle's tutorship in the 
Buller family, where he came to be esteemed as ar 


honored guest rather than as a salaried tutor, lasted 
a couple of years. Then he suddenly threw up the 
place, for no reason now apparent except that he had 
an unusually bad turn of dyspepsia, and consequently 
a severe fit of the " blues." He went back to his lodg- 
ings at Edinburgh, with some hundreds of pounds in 
his purse, which he was quite ready to share with his 
younger brother, John. 

Carlyle had performed some rather notable literary 
work. Foremost among this was the Life of Schiller, 
which came out at first in separate numbers of the 
London Magazine, and not long after as a volume by 
itself. This deserves some notice as being the first 
book by Carlyle. It is by no means a great work. 
Twenty years afterward, when he put forth a second 
edition, much enlarged, he styled it "an insignificant 
Book; very imperfect but also very harmless; one 
which can innocently instruct those who are more ig- 
norant than itself." The closing paragraphs of this 
Life af Schiller are, however, among the noblest 
things ever written by Carlyle. 


On the whole, we may pronounce him happy. His 
'days passed in the contemplation of ideal grandeur, he 
lived among the glories and solemnities of universal 
Nature ; his thoughts were of sages and heroes and scenes 
of Elysian beauty. It is true he had no rest, no peace; 
but he enjoyed the fiery consciousness of his own activity, 
which stands in place of it for men like him. It is true 
he was long sickly; but did he not even then conceive 
and body forth Max Piccolomini, and The Mdid of 
Orleans, and the scenes of Wilhelm Tell. It is true he 
died early; but the student will exclaim with Charles 
XII. in another case, "Was it not enough of life when 


he had conquered Kingdoms?" These Kingdoms which 
Schiller conquered were not from one nation at the 
expense o suffering to another; they were soiled by no 
patriot's blood, no widow's, no orphan's tears, they are 
Kingdoms conquered from the barren realms of Dark- 
ness, to increase the happiness, and dignity, and power 
of all men : new forms of Faith, new maxims of Wisdom, 
new images of Beauty " won from the void and formless 
Infinite :" a " possession forever " to all the generations 
of the earth. Life of Schiller. 

The translation of Wilhelm Meister was completed 
in. 1824. For it Carlyle received 180 upon the pub- 
lication of the first edition; if a second edition was 
called for, he was to be paid 250 more for 1,000 cop- 
ies ; the work after that to be his own absolute prop- 
erty. No second edition was for a long time called 
for ; " but/' he says, " any way, I am sufficiently paid 
*for my labor." In the Summer of 1824 Carlyle went 
to London for the first time, having been invited by 
Mrs. Buller to resume the tutorship of her sons ; but 
nothing came of this proposition. Carlyle's visit to 
London lasted until the next January, during which 
time he made a flying trip to Paris. This and two 
visits to Germany, of a month each, long after, when 
he was writing his Life of Frederick, were the only 
occasions upon which he ever set foot outside the 
British Islands. Upon this visit to London Carlyle 
renewed his intimacy with Irving; met with many of 
the literary celebrities of the day of whom he speaks 
in an altogether disparaging way ; and made arrange- 
ments with publishers for several works, prominent 
among which were a series of translations which were 
published next year in four volumes under the title 
Specimens of German Romance. 


Carlyle had in the meanwhile become engaged to 
Jane Welsh. The engagement was once or twice 
nearly broken off, owing mainly to Carlyle's imprac- 
ticable humors. He would not make his home with 
the mother of Miss Welsh, nor should she have a 
home with him and her daughter. He said : " I can- 
not live in a house of which I am not head ; I should 
be miserable, and make all about me miserable." But 
the disputes were smoothed over, and Thomas Carlyle 
and Jane Welsh were married in October, 1826, he 
being thirty-one and she six years younger. They 
took up their residence at Comely Bank, in the suburbs 
of Edinburgh, in a little house the rent of which was 
paid by Mrs. Welsh, who also provided the necessary 
furnishing. Carlyle had now about 200 in cash, with 
a reasonable prospect of earning a moderate subsist- 
ence by his pen. 

The eighteen months of their residence at Comely 
Bank appears to have been the happiest period in the 
joint lives of Carlyle and his wife. Jane Carlyle 
delicately reared developed the rare faculty, which 
she retained ever afterward, of making a little go a 
great way, as it soon became needful to do, for the 
book-trade was in a very depressed state. The Life 
of Schiller; Wilhelm Meister, and the German Ro- 
mance went off slowly, and publishers were not dis- 
posed to make new ventures in the direction to which 
Carlyle's work had tended. He tried to strike out 
some new path. He began a novel, but threw it up, 
after writing a few chapters. He projected a Literary 
Annual Register, to be edited and mainly written by 
himself; but no bookseller would risk money in its 
publication. With Carlyle it was all outgo and no 


income, and his 200 were rapidly being eaten up. 
Before long he reverted to an idea which had been 
before considered and laid aside. This was that they 
should take up their residence at Craigenputtock 
("Hawkscliff"), a wild moorland farm belonging to 
Mrs. Carlyle (or, at present to her mother), the tenant 
of which was about to be dispossessed, not being able 
to pay his rent. " Here/' urged Carlyle, " I can have 
my horse, pure milk-diet, and go on with literature 
and my life-task generally in the absolute solitude and 
pure silence of Nature, with nothing but loving and 
helpful faces around me." His wife at last consented, 
and the movement was decided upon. Alexander Ca;r- 
lyle, a younger brother of Thomas, was to take the 
farm and manage it. He actually went there in May, 
1827; his brother and wife expected to follow soon. 

But just then things took a new turn. Carlyle re- 
ceived an introduction to Jeffrey, who asked him to 
contribute to the Edinburgh Review. The next num- 
ber was nearly all printed; but there was yet space 
for a short article, and Carlyle wrote the paper on 
Richter, which appeared in October, 1827, being the 
first of his contributions to the Edinburgh Review; 
and the subjects of future papers were agreed upon. 
Jeffrey remained ever afterward a stanch friend of 
the Carlyles. Something of this is doubtless to be 
attributed to the honest admiration which the dapper 
elderly literary autocrat (Jeffrey was several years 
beyond fifty) formed for the bright, clever Jane Car- 
lyle. Quite as much is to be attributed to his high 
estimate of the genius of Carlyle himself: an esti- 
mate all the higher that Jeffrey never could quite un- 
derstand Carlyle. Carlyle also found in the Foreign 


Review a market for several other papers upon themes 
connected with German literature. In March, 1828, 
he wrote to his brother : 


This Edinburgh is getting more and more agreeable 
to me more and more a sort of home ; and I can live 
in it, if I like to live perpetually unhealthy, and strive 
forever against becoming a hack; for that I cannot be. 
On the other hand, I should have liberty and solitude for 
all I like best among the moors ; only Jane though, like 
a good wife, she says nothing seems more and more 
averse to the whole enterprise. 

The matter was, however, decided for them, not by 
them. Carlyle dallied about renewing his lease of 
Comely Bank, and the owner leased the house to 
another tenant The Carlyles had to leave, and 
Craigenputtock was still open to them. To Craigen- 
puttock they went, arriving there near the close of 
May, 1828. Of this new home of theirs Mr. Froude 


Craigenputtock is the dreariest spot in all the British 
dominions. The nearest cottage is more than a mile 
from it. The elevation 700 feet above the sea stunts 
the trees, and limits the garden-produce to the hardiest 
vegetables. The house is gaunt and hungry-looking. 
It stands, with the scanty fields attached, as an island 
in a sea of morass; the landscape, unredeemed by either 
grace or grandeur, mere undulating hills of grass and 
heather, with peat-bogs in the hollows between them. 
The belts of firs, which now relieve the eye, were scarcely 
planted when the Carlyles took possession. The Spring 
is late in Scotland. In May, on the high moors, the 


trees are still bare; the fields are scarcely colored with 
the first shoots of green; and Winter lingers in the 
lengthening days, as if unwilling to relax its grasp. No 
wonder that Mrs. Carlyle shuddered at the thought of 
making her home in so stern a solitude, delicate as she 
was, with a weak chest, and with the fatal nervous dis- 
order, of which she eventually died, already beginning 
to show itself . Froude's Life of Carlyle. 

Within doors the house at Craigenputtock had been 
made quite habitable. In a letter to Goethe, Carlyle 
gave an idyllic description of their way of life at 
Craigenputtock. But except during the Summer 
months life must have been dreary there. He was 
wont to shut himself up all day with his pipe and his 
books, and his wife was forced to take upon herself 
the hardest household tasks. 

The residence at Craigenputtock lasted six years, 
during which Carlyle performed most of his best lit- 
erary work. Here were written nearly all of his 
Edinburgh Review articles, including the one upon 
Burns, held by many to be the best critico-biographical 
essay in the language; here were written what was 
intended to be a History of German Literature, much 
of which appeared subsequently as separate papers; 
here also was written, for the most part, Sartor 
Resartus, the best of all his books, unless that dis- 
tinction should be accorded to The History of the 
French Revolution. 

Affairs did not, however, go on well in this solitude, 
Alexander Carlyle could not make the farm pay, and 
had to give it up, after sinking what little money he 
had, and several scores of pounds which his brother 
had advanced to him. Manuscript after manuscript 
was returned to Carlyle by the London publishers, and 


even the Edinburgh Review grew remiss in its pay- 
ments, now that Jeffrey had resigned the editorship. 
At one time Carlyle notes that he had reached his last 
five pounds of ready money ; and it was not quite cer- 
tain how soon any more would be coming in. 

Carlyle, his wife assenting, resolved that he would 
go up to the " great beehive and wasps'-nest of Lon- 
don/' and ascertain whether there was paying work 
there for him to do. Early in the Spring of 1831 he 
wrote to his brother John, who was then trying his 
fortune in London: "Keep this inviolably secret; 
and know meanwhile that if I can raise 50 at the 
right season, to London I will certainly come." 
Jeffrey had not many months before pressed Carlyle 
to accept from him an annuity of 100, which had 
been declined. He now accepted 50 as a temporary 
loan, and set out for London, where some moneys 
were due from one editor and another. 

He reached London early in August, 1831. His 
immediate purpose was to find a publisher for Sartor 
Resartus, or " Teufelsdrockh," as the work was first 
styled. The result was discouraging. Both Long- 
man and Colburn positively declined to have anything 
to do with it. Eraser would publish it upon condition 
that the author should advance i 150 to pay expenses. 
Murray, upon the recommendation of Jeffrey, would 
print seven hundred and fifty copies at his own risk 
nothing to be paid to the author ; but he soon found a 
plausible reason for falling back from this agreement. 
So Sartor Resartus remained in abeyance for a while, 
and in the end came out in some ten successive num- 
bers of Fraser*s Magazine, where it formed a ready 
butt for the critics of the press, who pronounced it 


to be a " heap of clotted nonsense, mixed, however, 
here and there with passages marked by thought and 
striking poetic vigor." These papers, as they ap- 
peared, were carefully read by at least one man 
Ralph Waldo Emerson through whom they were, 
in America, put forth in a little volume, with an almost 
apologetical preface : 


The editors have been induced to collect the following 
sheets out of the ephemeral pamphlets in which they 
appeared, under conviction that they contain in them- 
selves the assurance of a longer date. The editors have 
no expectation that this little work will have a sudden 
and general popularity. They will not undertake, as 
there is no need, to justify the gay costume in which the 
author delights to dress his thoughts, or the German 
idioms with which he has sportively sprinkled his pages. 
It is his humor to advance the gravest speculations upon 
the gravest topics in a quaint and burlesque style. But 
we will venture to remark that the distaste excited by 
these peculiarities in some readers is greatest at first, 
and is soon forgotten, and that the foreign dress and 
aspect of the work are quite superficial, and cover a 
genuine Saxon heart. . . . But what will chiefly com- 
mend the Book to the discerning reader is the manifest 
design of the work which is a Criticism upon the Spirit 
of the Age we had almost said of the hour in which 
we live; exhibiting in the most just and novel light the 
present aspects of Religion, Politics, Literature, Arts, 
and Social Life. Under all his gayety the author has a 
manifest meaning, and discovers an insight into the 
manifold wants and tendencies of human nature which 
is very rare among our popular authors. 

Sartor Resartus ("The Tailor Retailor ed ") may 
be properly designated as the " Life and Opinions 


of Diogenes Teuf elsdrockh " (Bod-born Devilsdung 
the latter German word, like its English equiva- 
lent, being the vulgar name for the ill-smelling gum 
assafcetida) who was mysteriously left at the door of 
Andreas Futteral (Fodderbag), in the village of En- 
tepfuhl (Duckpuddle) . He was trained at the Gym- 
nasium of Hinterschlag (Hifbehind) ; was in time 
made Professor of Allerlei-Wissenschaft (General 
Philosophy) in the new University of Weisnichtwo 
(Don'tknowwhere) ; and put forth a learned work, 
entitled, " Clothes, Their Origin and Influence." This 
book, supplemented by various documents supplied by 
the Hofrath Heuschreke (Court Councillor Grass- 
hopper}, an admiring friend of Professor Teufels- 
drockh, forms the material from which Sartor Resartus 
is constructed. By " Clothes " we are to understand 
all forms, institutions, and beliefs which man has ever 
fashioned for himself, whether for ornament, protec- 
tion, or convenience. The theory is thus set forth by 
Teufelsdrockh ; 


All visible things are Emblems; what thou seest is 
not there on its own account; strictly taken, it is not 
there at all. Matter exists only spiritually, and to rep- 
resent some Idea and body it forth. Hence Clothes, 
despicable as we think them, are so unspeakably signifi- 
cant Clothes, from the King's mantle downward, are 
Emblematic, not of want only, but of a manifold cunning 
Victory over Want. On the other hand, all Emblematic 
things are properly Clothes, thought-woven or hand- 
woven. Must not the Imagination weave Garments, 
visible Bodies, wherein the else invisible creations and 
inspirations of our Reason are, like Spirits, revealed, and 
first become all-powerful; the rather if, as we often see, 
VOL. V. 10 


the Hand, too, aid her, and (by wool Clothes or other- 
wise) reveal such even to the outward eye? Men are 
said to be clothed with Authority, clothed with Beauty, 
with Curses, and the like. Nay, if you consider it, what 
is Man himself and his whole terrestrial Life, but an 
Emblem; a Clothing or visible Garment for that divine 
Me of his, cast hither, like a light particle, down from 
Heaven. Thus is he said also to be clothed with a Body. 
. . . Why multiply instances? It is written, The 
Heavens and the Earth shall fade away like a Vesture; 
which indeed they are: the Time-vesture of the Eternal. 
Whatsoever sensibly exists, whatsoever represents Spirit 
to Spirit, is properly a Clothing, a suit of Raiment, put 
on for a season, and to be laid off. Thus in this one 
pregnant subject of Clothes, rightly understood, is in- 
cluded all that men have thought, dreamed, done, and 
been. The whole External Universe, and what it holds, 
is but Clothing, and the essence of all Science lies in the 
Philosophy of Clothes. Sartor Resartus, Book L, Chap. 


By Church-Clothes I mean infinitely more than Cas- 
socks and Surplices; and I do not at all mean the mere 
haberdasher Sunday Clothes that men go to Church in. 
Far from it! Church-Clothes are, in our vocabulary, 
the Forms, the Vestures under which men have at various 
periods embodied and represented for themselves the 
Religious Principle; that is to say, invested the Divine 
Idea of the World with a sensible and practically active 
Body, so that it might dwell among them as a living and 
life-giving Word. These are unspeakably the most im- 
portant of all the vestures and garnitures of Human 
Existence. They are first spun and woven, I may say 
by that wonder of wonders, Society, for it is still only 
when " two or three are gathered together " that Re- 
ligion, spiritually existent, and indeed indestructible, 
however lateni, in each, first outwardly manifests itself 
(as with "cloven tongues of fire"), and seeks to be em- 


bodied in a visible Communion and Church Militant. 
Mystical, more than magical, is that Communing of 
Soul with Soul, both looking heavenward take it in 
what sense you may not in looking earthward, does 
what we can call Union, Mutual Love, Society, begin to 
be possible. . . . 

But with regard to your Church-proper, and the 
Church-Clothes specially recognized as Church-Clothes, 
I remark, fearlessly enough, that without such Vestures 
and Sacred Tissues Society has not existed, and will not 
exist. For if the Government is, so to speak, the out- 
ward skin of the Body Politic, holding the whole together 
and protecting it; and all your Craft-Guilds and Associa- 
tions for Industry, of hand and head, are the Fleshy 
Clothes, the muscular and osseous Tissues (lying under 
such skin), whereby Society stands and works; then is 
Religion the inmost Pericardial and Nervous Tissue, 
which ministers Life and warm Circulation to the whole. 
Without which Pericardial Tissue the Bones and Muscles 
(of Industry) were inert, or animated only by a Galvanic 
Vitality: the Skin would become a shrivelled pelt, or 
fast-rotting raw hide ; and Society itself a dead carcass 
deserving to be buried. Men were no longer Social, but 
Gregarious; which latter state also could not continue, 
but must gradually issue in universal selfish discord, 
hatred, savage isolation, and dispersion; whereby, as 
we might continue to say, the very dust and dead body 
of Society would have evaporated and become abolished. 
Such, and so all-important, all-sustaining, are the Church- 
Clothes to civilized or even to rational man. 

Meanwhile, in our Era of the World, these same 
Church-Clothes have gone sorrowfully out at elbows: 
nay, far worse, many of them have become mere hollow 
Shapes, or Masks, under which no living Figure or 
Spirit any longer dwells; but only spiders and unclean 
beetles, in horrid accumulation, drive their trade; and 
the mask still glares on you with its glass eyes in ghastly 
affectation of Life some generation and a half after 
Religion has quite withdrawn from it, and in unnoticed 
nooks is weaving for herself new Vestures, wherewith to 


reappear, and bless us, or our sons or grandsons. As 
a Priest, or Interpreter of the Holy, is the noblest and 
highest of all men, so is a Sham-Priest the falsest and 
basest: neither is it doubtful that his Canonicals were 
they Popes' tiaras will one day be torn from him, to 
make bandages for the wounds of mankind; or even to 
burn into tinder, for general scientific or culinary pur- 
poses. Sartor Resartus, Book III., Chap. ii. 


Could anything be more miraculous than an actual, 
authentic ghost? The English Johnson longed all his 
life to see one; but could not, though he went to Cock 
Lane, and thence to the church-vaults and tapped on 
coffins. Foolish Doctor! Did he never, with the mind's 
eye, as well as the body's, look round him into that full 
tide of human life he so loved? Did he never so much 
as look into himself? The good Doctor was a ghost, as 
actual and authentic as heart could wish; well-nigh a 
million of ghosts were travelling the streets by his side. 

Once more I say, Sweep away the illusion of Time; 
compress the three-score years into three minutes: what 
else was he? what else are we? Are we not Spirits, 
that are shaped into a body into an Appearance, and 
that fade away into air and Invisibility? This is no 
metaphor, it is a simple scientific fact. We start out of 
Nothingness, take figure, and are Apparitions; round us, 
as round the veriest spectre, is Eternity ; and to Eternity 
minutes are as years and aeons. Come there not tones 
of Love and Faith, as from celestial harp-strings, like 
the song of beatified Souls? And again do we not 
squeak and gibber (in our discordant, screech-owlish 
debatings and recriminatings) : and glide bodeful and 
feeble, and fearful; or uproar and revel in our mad 
Dance of the Dead till the scent of the morning air 
summons us to our still Home; and dreamy Night be- 
comes awake and Day? 

Where now is Alexander of Macedon? Does the steel 
host that yelled in fierce battle-shouts at Issus and Arbela 


remain behind him; or have they all vanished utterly, 
even as perturbed Goblins must? Napoleon, too, and his 
Moscow Retreats and Austerlitz Campaigns i Was it all 
other than the veriest Spectre-hunt, which has now, with 
its howling tumult that made night hideous, flitted away? 
Ghosts? There are now a thousand million walking 
the Earth openly at noontide; some half-hundred have 
vanished from it, some half-hundred have arisen in it, ere 
thy watcH ticks once. 

O Heaven, it is mysterious, it is awful to consider 
that we not only carry each a future Ghost within him, 
but are, in very deed, Ghosts ! These limbs, whence had 
we them : this stormy Force, this Life-blood with its burn- 
ing passion? They are dust and shadow; a Shadow- 
system gathered round our Me; wherein through some 
moments or years the Divine Essence is to be revealed in 
the Flesh. That Warrior on his strong war-horse: fire 
flashes through his eyes; force dwells in his arm and 
heart; but warrior and warhorse are a Vision a re- 
vealed Force nothing more. Stately they tread the 
Earth, as if it were a firm substance: fool I the Earth is 
but a film; it cracks in twain, and warrior and war-horse 
sink beyond plummet's sounding. Plummet's? Fantasy 
herself will not follow them. A little while ago they 
were not ; a little while and they are not ; their very ashes 
are not 

So it has been from the beginning; so will it be to 
the end. Generation after generation takes to itself the 
Form of a Body; and forth-issuing from Cimmerian 
Night, on Heaven's mission, appears. What Force of 
Fire is in each he expends; one grinding in the mill of 
industry; one, hunter-like, climbing the Alpine heights 
of Science; one madly dashed in pieces on the rocks 
of Strife, in war with his fellows ; and then the Heaven- 
sent is recalled; his earthly Vesture falls away, and even 
to sense becomes a Vanished Shadow. Thus, like some 
wild-flaming, wild-thundering train of Heaven's Artillery, 
does this Mysterious Mankind thunder and flame in long- 
drawn, quick-succeeding grandeur, through the- unknown 
Deep. Thus, like a God-created, fire-breathing Spirit- 


host, we emerge from the inane. Earth's mountains are 
levelled, and her seas filled up, in our passage; can the 
Earth, which is but dead and a vision, resist Spirits, 
which have reality and are alive? On the hardest ada- 
mant some footprint of us is stamped in; the last Rear 
of the host will read traces of the earliest Van. But 
whence? Heaven, whither? Sense knows not; Faith 
knows not; only that it is through Mystery to Mystery, 
from God and to God. Sartor Resartus, Book III., 
Chap. x. 

Sartor Resartus was received with abundant disfavor 
during the ten months while it was passing in so many 
successive numbers of Fraser*$ Magazine. We 
imagine it was brought to a close much earlier than 
the author intended. The ending is certainly abrupt, 
the work closing with the following farewell to the 
readers and the editor of the magazine : 


Here, however, can the present Editor, with an am- 
brosial joy, as of overweariness falling into sleep, lay 
down his pen. Well does he know, if human testimony 
be worth aught, that to innumerable British readers like- 
wise, this is a satisfying consummation; that innumer- 
able British readers consider him, during these current 
months but as an uneasy interruption to their ways oi 
thought and digestion ; and indicate' so much, not without 
a certain irritancy and even spoken invective. For which, 
as for other mercies, ought he not to thank the Upper 
Powers? To one and all of you, O irritated readers, he 
with outstretched arms and open heart, will wave a kind 
farewell. Thou, too, miraculous Entity, who namest 
thyself YORKE and OLIVER, and with thy vivacities and 
genialities, with thy all too Irish mirth and madness, and 
odor of palled punch, makest such strange work, fare- 
well; long as thou canst, farewell! Have we not, in the 
course of Eternity, travelled some months of our Life- 


journey in partial sight of one another; have we not 
existed together, though in a state of quarrel ? Sartor 
Resartus, Book IIL, Cap. xiL 

From London Carlyle went back to Craigenputtock ; 
and at length, early in 1834, he decided with his 
wife's full concurrence to take up his abode in Lon- 
don. They found a comfortable house, rent 30 a 
year, in Chelsea, then a kind of quiet nook in the great 
city, of which they took possession in June. This 
house remained their home for the thirty-two years 
during which Jane Carlyle lived, and continued to be 
that of Thomas Carlyle for the fifteen years that he 
survived her. It is worthy of note that at this time 
Carlyle's whole worldly wealth was 200 so much 
had he saved from what had been paid him for Sartor 
Resartus, and some other writings. 

Carlyle was just about entering his thirty-ninth year. 
So far he had been an apprentice, or at most a journey- 
man in literature. He was now fairly to set up as a 
master-workman. He had already fixed upon the 
French Revolution as the subject of his next work. 
Early in February, 1835, he notes in his journal, " The 
first Book of the French Revolution is finished. 
It is now some three-and-twenty months since I have 
earned one penny by the craft of literature." A month 
afterward all which he had written was destroyed. He 
had lent the manuscript to his friend James Mill for 
perusal. One night Mill sat up until late reading it. 
The servant, coming in in the morning, saw the sheets 
lying around on the floor; thinking them mere waste 
paper, she used them to light the fire. The manu- 
script thus destroyed formed about a quarter of the 
whole work as finally completed. Mr. Mill did his 


best to make good the loss which he had occasioned. 
He sent to Carlyle a check for 200; but he would 
accept only half this sum, which would, he thought, 
pay him for the five months' labor of reproducing it. 
In six or seven months the lost manuscript was rewrit- 
ten. He went on with the work, the last sentence of 
which was written on the evening of January 12, 1837. 
" I know not," he said to his wife as he handed the 
last pages to her, " whether this book is worth any- 
thing, nor what the world will do with it, or misdo, 
or entirely forebear to do, as is likeliest; but this I 
could tell the world: You have not had for a hun- 
dred years any book that comes more direct and flam- 
ingly from the heart of a living man. Do what you 
like with it." 

The History of the French Revolution, as written' 
by Carlyle, begins with the accession of Louis XVL, 
May, 1774, and ends with " The Whiff of Grapeshot," 
by which, October 4, 1795, Napoleon Bonaparte put 
an end to the rule of the Convention. The work is not 
so much a connected History of the Revolution as a 
series of brilliant scenes from that History. 


Louis XV. had always the kingliest abhorrence oi 
Death: he would -not suffer Death to be spoken of; 
avoided the sight of churchyards, funeral monuments, 
and whatsoever could bring it to mind. It is the foolish 
resource of the Ostrich, who, hard hunted, sticks his 
foolish head in the ground, and would fain forget that 
his foolish, unseeing body is not unseen too. Or some- 
times, with a spasmodic antagonism, significant of the 
same thing, and of more, he would go; or, stopping his 
court carriages, would send into churchyards, and ask 


"how many new graves there were to-day," though it 
gave his poor Pompadour the disagreeablest qualms. 

But figure his thought when Death is now clutching 
at his own heart-strings ; unlocked for, inexorable 1 Yes, 
poor Louis, Death has found thee. No palace walls or 
life-guards, gorgeous tapestries or gilt buckram of stiffest 
ceremonial, could keep him out; but he is here at thy 
very life-breath, and will extinguish it. Thou, whose 
whole existence hitherto was a chimera and scenic show, 
at length becomest a reality: sumptuous Versailles burst 
asunder like a Dream into void Immensity; Time is done, 
and all the scaffolding of Time falls wrecked, with 
hideous clangor, round thy soul ; the pale Kingdoms yawn 
open; there must thou enter, naked, all unkinged, and 
await what is appointed thee! Unhappy man, there, as 
thou turnest in dull agony on the bed of weariness, what 
a thought is thine ! Purgatory and Hell-fire now all too 
possible, in the prospect: in the retrospect alas what 
thing didst thou do that were not better undone? What 
mortal didst thou generously help? What sorrow hadst 
thou mercy on ? Do the " five hundred thousand " ghosts 
who sank shamefully on so many battle-fields from Ross- 
bach to Quebec, that thy Harlot might take revenge for 
an epigram, crowd round thee in this hour? Thy foul 
Harem; the curses of mothers, the tears and infamy of 
daughters ? Miserable man ! thou " has done evil as thou 
couldst ;" thy whole existence seems one hideous abortion 
and mistake of Nature. Frightful, O Louis, seem these 
moments for thee. We will pry no further into the 
horrors of a sinner's death-bed. 

And yet let no meaner man lay flattering unction to 
his soul. Louis was a Ruler: but art not thou also one? 
His wide France, look at it from the Fixed Stars (them- 
selves not yet Infinitude), is no wider than thy narrow 
brickfield, where thou, too, didst faithfully, or didst un- 
faithfully. Man, " Symbol of Eternity imprisoned into 
Time!" it is not thy works, which are all mortal, in- 
finitely little, and the greatest no greater than the least, 


but only the spirit them workest in, that can have worth 
or continuance. French Revolution, Vol. I. Book i. f 
Chap. 4. 


The morning comes, cold for a July one, but such a 
festivity would make Greenland smile. Through every 
inlet of that National Amphitheatre (for it is a league in 
circuit, cut with openings at due intervals) floods in the 
living throng, covers, without tumult, space after space. 
Far aloft, over the Altar of the Fatherland, on their tall 
crane-standards of iron, swing pensile our antique Cas- 
solettes or Pans of Incense; dispensing sweet incense- 
fumes unless for the Heathen Mythology, one sees not 
for whom. Two hundred thousand Patriotic Men, and 
twice as good one hundred thousand Patriotic Wom- 
en, all decked and glorified as one can fancy, sit waiting 
in this Champ de Mars. . . . 

But behold there, on this Field of Mars, the National 
Banners, before there could be any swearing, were all to 
be blessed. A most proper operation; since surely with- 
out Heaven's blessing bestowed, say even audibly or in- 
audibly sought, no Earthly banner or contrivance can 
prove victorious: but now the means of doing it? By 
what thrice-divine Franklin thunder-rod shall miraculous 
fire be drawn out of Heaven, and descend gently, life- 
giving, with health to the souls of men? Alas, by the 
simplest: by two hundred shaven-crowned Individuals, 
" in snow-white albs, with tri-color girdles," arranged on 
the steps of Fatherland's Altar; and at their head, for 
spokesman, Souls' Overseer Talleyrand Perigord ! These 
shall act as miraculous thunder-rod to such length as 
they can. 

O ye deep, azure Heavens, and thou green, all-nursing 
Earth: ye Streams ever-flowing; deciduous Forests that 
die and are born continually, like the sons of men; stone 
Mountains that die daily with every rain shower, yet are 
not dead and levelled for ages of ages, nor born again 
(it seems) but with new world-explosions, and such 


tumultuous seething and tumbling, steam half-way up to 
the Moon ; O thou unfathomable mystic All, garment and 
dwelling-place of the UNNAMED; and thou, articulate- 
speaking Spirit of Man, who mouldest and modellest that 
Unfathomable and Unnamable even as we see is not 
there a miracle: That some French mortal should, we say 
not have believed, but pretended to imagine he believed 
that Talleyrand and two hundred pieces of white Calico 
could do it ! 

Here, however, we are to remark, with the sorrowing 
Historians of that day, that suddenly, while Episcopus 
Talleyrand long-stoled, with mitre and tri-color belt 
was yet but hitching up the Altar-steps, to do his miracle, 
the material Heaven grew black; a north-wind, moaning 
cold moisture, began to sing; and there descended a very 
deluge of rain. Sad to see! The thirty-staired seats 
round our Amphitheatre get instantaneously slated with 
mere umbrellas, fallacious when so thick set; our Cas- 
solettes become Waterpots, their incense-smoke gone hiss- 
ing, in a whiff of muddy vapor. Alas, instead of vivats, 
there is nothing now but the furious peppering and rat- 
tling. From three to four hundred thousand human indi- 
viduals feel that they have a skin, happily impervious. 
The General's sash runs water; how all military banners 
droop, and will not wave, but lazily flap, as metamor- 
phosed into painted tin-banners ! Worse, far worse, these 
hundred thousand such is the Historian's testimony 
of the fairest of France! Their snowy muslins all 
splashed and draggled; the ostrich- feather shrunk shame- 
fully to the backbone of a feather; all caps are 
ruined, innermost pasteboard molten into its original pap : 
Beauty no longer swims decorated in her garniture, like 
Love-goddess hidden-revealed in her Paphian clouds, but 
struggles in disastrous imprisonment in it, for " the shape 
was noticeable;" and now only sympathetic interjections, 
titterings, tee-heeings, and resolute good-humor will avail. 

A deluge; an incessant sheet or fluid-column of rain: 
such that our Overseer's mitre must be filled ; not a mitre, 
but a filled and leaky fire-bucket on his reverend head ! 
Regardless of which, Overseer Talleyrand performs his 


miracle: the blessing of Talleyrand another than that 
of Jacob is on all the eighty-three departmental flags 
of France, which wave or flap with such thankfulness as 
nee d s . Towards three o'clock the sun beams out again: 
the remaining evolutions can be transacted under bright 
heavens, though with decorations much damaged. French 
Revolution, Vol. L, Book viii., Chap. 12. 


On Saturday, the second day of April, 1791, Mirabeau 
feels that the last of the Days has risen for him; that 
on this day he has to depart, and be no more. His 
death is Titanic, as his life has been. He longs to live, 
yet acquiesces in death, argues not with the inexorable. 
His speech is wild and wondrous: unearthly Phantasms 
dancing now their torch-dance round his soul; the Soul 
looking out, fire-radiant, motionless, girt together for 
that great hour. At times comes a beam of light from 
him on the world he is quitting. . . . He gazes forth 
on the young Spring, which for him will never be Sum- 
mer. The Sun has risen; he says, "Si ce n'est pas la 
Dieu, c'est du moins son cousin germain" Death has 
mastered the outworks ; the power of speech is gone, 'the 
citadel of the heart still holding out. The moribund 
giant passionately, by sign, demands opium; writes his 
passionate demand for opium to end these agonies. The 
sorrowful Doctor' shakes his head. " Dormir" " to 
sleep," writes the other, passionately pointing at it. So 
dies a gigantic Heathen and Titan; stumbling blindly, 
undismayed, down to his rest. At half-past eight in the 
morning, Dr. Petit, standing at the foot of the bed, says, 
"II ne souffre plus." His suffering and his working are 
now ended. French Revolution, Vol. L, Book x., 
Chap. 7. 


As the clocks strike ten, behold the Place de la Revo- 
lution, once Place de Louis Quinze: the guillotine 
mounted near the old pedestal where once stood the 


statue of that Louis. Far round, all bristles with can- 
nons and armed men; spectators crowding in the rear; 
d'Orleans figalite there in cabriolet. Heedless of all, 
Louis reads his Prayers for the Dying; not till five 
minutes yet has he finished; then the carriage opens. 
What temper is he in? Ten witnesses will give ten 
different accounts of it He is in the collision of all 
tempers ; arrived now at the black Maelstrom and descent 
of Death ; in sorrow, in indignation, in resignation strug- 
gling to be resigned. "Take care of M. Edgeworth," he 
straitly charges the Lieutenant who is sitting with them: 
then they two descend. 

He mounts the scaffold, not without delay. He is in 
full coat, breeches of gray, white stockings. He strips 
off the coat, stands disclosed in a sleeve-waistcoat of 
white flannel. The executioners approach to bind him: 
he spurns, resists; Abbe Edgeworth has to remind him 
how the Saviour, in whom men trust, submitted to be 
bound. His hands are tied, his head bare; the fatal 
moment is come. He advances to the edge of the scaf- 
fold, "his face very red," and says: "Frenchmen, I die 
innocent: it is from the scaffold and near appearing 
before God that I tell you so. I pardon my enemies; I 

desire that France- " A General on horseback, San- 

terre or another, prances out with uplifted hands: 
"Tambours!" The drums drown the voice. "Execu- 
tioners, do your duty!" The executioners, lest them- 
selves be murdered (for Santerre and his armed ranks 
will strike, if they do not), seize the hapless Louis, six of 
them desperate, him singly desperate, struggling there; 
and bind him to the plank Abbe Edgeworth, stooping, 
bespeaks him : " Son of Saint Louis, ascend to Heaven." 
The axe clanks down; A King's Life is shorn away. It 
is Monday, the 2ist of January, 1793. He was aged 
thirty-eight years, four months, and twenty-eight 
days. . . . 

At home this killing of a King has divided all friends, 
and abroad it has united all enemies. Fraternity of 
Peoples, Revolutionary Propagandism ; Atheism, Regi- 
cide: total destruction of Social Order in this world! 


All Kings and lovers of Kings, and haters of Anarchy, 
rank in coalition, as in a war for life. England signifies 
to Citizen Chauvelin, the Ambassador, or rather Ambas- 
sador's Cloak, that he must quit the country in eight 
days. Ambassador's Cloak and Ambassador Chauve- 
lin and Talleyrand depart accordingly. Talleyrand, 
implicated in that Iron Press of the Tuileries, thinks it 
safest to make for America. 

England has cast out the Embassy; England declares 
war being shocked principally, it would seem, at the 
condition of the River Scheldt. Spain declares war, 
being shocked principally at some other thing; which 
doubtless the Manifesto indicates. Nay, we find that 
it was not England that declared war first, or Spain first; 

Sansculottism was the frightfulest thing ever born of 
them. They all declare war. The sword is drawn, the 
scabbard thrown away. It is even as Danton said, in 
one of his ail-too gigantic figures: "The coalized Kings 
threaten us; we hurl at their feet, as gage of battle, the 
Head of a King." French Revolution, Vol. II., Book 
vv.j Chap. 8. 


Sansculottism was the frightfulest thing ever born of 
Time? One of the frightfulest. The Convention, now 
grown Anti- Jacobin, did, with an eye to justify and 
fortify itself, publish lists of what the Reign of Terror 
had perpetrated. Lists of Persons Guillotined. These 
Lists, cries splenetic Abbe Montgalliard, were not com- 
plete. They contain the names of how many persons 
thinks the Reader? Two thousand, all but a few. 
There were above four thousand, cries Montgalliard; so 
many who were guillotined, fusilladed, nogaded, done to 
dire death; of whom nine hundred were women. 

It is a horrible sum of human lives, M. TAbbe: some 
ten times as many shot rightly on a field of battle, and 
one might have had his Glorious Victory with Te Deums. 
It is not far from the two-hundredth part of what per- 
ished in the entire Seven Years' War. By which Seven 


Years' War did not the great Fritz wrench Silesia from 
the great Theresa; and a Pompadour, stung by epigram, 
satisfy herself that she could not be an Agnes Sorel? 
The head of a man is a strange, vacant, sounding-shell, 
M. 1'Abbe; and studies Cocker to small purpose. 

But what if History somewhere on this Planet were 
to hear of a Nation, the third soul of whom had not for 
thirty weeks each year as many third-rate potatoes as 
would sustain him? History in that case would be bound 
to consider that starvation is starvation; that starvation 
from age to age presupposes much; History ventures to 
assert that the French Sansculotte of Ninety-three, who, 
roused from long death-sleep, could rush to the frontiers, 
and die fighting for an immortal Hope and Faith of 
Deliverance, for him and his, was but the second-miser- 
ablest of men* 

History looking back through this France through 
long times back to Turgot's time, for instance con- 
fesses mournfully that there is no period to be met with 
in which the general Twenty-five Millions of France 
suffered less than in this period which they name Reign 
of Terror! But it was not the Dumb Millions that 
suffered here : it was the speaking Thousands and Hun- 
dreds and Units; who shrieked and published, and made 
the world ring with their wail, as they could and should: 
that is the grand peculiarity. The frightfulest Births of 
Time are never the loud-speaking ones, for these soon 
die; they are the silent ones, which can live from cen- 
tury to century! Anarchy, hateful as Death, is abhor- 
rent to the whole nature of man ; and so must itself soon 

Wherefore let all men know what of depth and of 
height is still revealed in man; and with fear and won- 
der, with just sympathy, and just antipathy, with clear 
eye and open heart, contemplate it and appropriate it; 
and draw innumerable inferences from it. This infer- 
ence, for example, among the first: That "if the gods 
of this lower world will sit on their glittering thrones, 
indolent as Epicurus's gods, with the living Chaos of 
Ignorance and Hunger weltering uncared for at their 


feet, and smooth Parasites preaching * Peace, peace, when 
there is no pease/ then the dark Chaos, it would seem, 
will rise: has risen, and O Heavens! has it not tanned 
their skins into breeches for itself ?" That there be no 
second Sansculottism in our Earth for a thousand years, 
let us understand what the first was; and let Rich and 
Poor of us go and do otherwise. French Revolution, 
Vol. II. , Book ix., Chap. 6. 

The French Revolution was published, but no money 
came to the author from it. Some of Carlyle's friends 
notably among whom was Harriet Martineau, urged 
him to deliver a course of lectures. They hired a hall, 
got two hundred subscribers to the course of six lec- 
tures on German Literature which were delivered in 
May, 1837, and netted to Carlyle 135. Next May 
'(1838) he delivered a course of twelve lectures upon 
Dante, Luther, Shakespeare, Voltaire, Johnson, and 
others, which brought him 300. In 1839 he delivered 
a third course upon Heroes and Hero-Worship, which 
netted 200. These lectures were delivered wholly ex- 
tempore; the last course, however, was subsequently 
written out and published in a volume. These were 
the only occasions when Carlyle ever spoke to a public 
audience until a quarter of a century afterward, when 
he gave his Inaugural Address as Lord Rector of the 
University of Edinburgh. 

Near the close of 1839 Carlyle wrote Chartism, 
originally designed as an article for the Quarterly Re- 
view. Lockhart, the editor, dared not insert it in the 
Review, and it was expanded into a book, which met 
with a large scale. In 1840 Carlyle fixed upon Oliver 
Cromwell as the subect of a large work. But little 
progress was made in the actual composition until 18430 
In this year he put forth Past and Present, the most 


rapidly written of all his works. Though larger by 
half than Sartor Resartus, it was written in the course 
of seven weeks. Of it he writes to his mother i 


I hope it will be a rather useful kind of book. It 
goes rather in a fiery strain about the present condition 
of men in general, and the strange pass they are coming 
to ; and I calculate it may awaken here and there a slum- 
bering blockhead to rub his eyes and consider what he 
is about in God's creation a thing highly desirable at 
present. I found I could not go on with Cromwell, or 
with anything else, till I had disburdened my heart some- 
what in regard to all that The look of the world is 
really quite oppressive to me. Eleven thousand souls in 
Paisley alone living on three-halfpence a day, and the 
governors of the land all busy shooting partridges and 
passing corn-laws the while. It is a thing no man with 
a speaking tongue in his head is entitled to be silent 

The actual composition of Cromwell began in the 
Spring of 1844; at the end of the Summer of 1845 he 
writes triumphantly: " I have this moment ended Oli- 
ver; hang it! He is ended, thrums and all. I have 
nothing more to write on the subject, only mountains 
of wreck to burn." The work was published in De- 
cember; a new edition was at once called for, which 
appeared in May, 1846, with very considerable addi- 
tions. A third edition, with few and slight changes, 
appeared in 1849. At the very outset Carlyle tells 
what was the task which he had proposed for himself : 


Ours is a very small enterprise, but seemingly a use- 
ful one; preparatory perhaps to greater and more use- 
ful on this same matter: The collecting of Letters and 
VOL. V. ii 


&f Qlwer Cromwell, and presenting them in 
natural seqtieace, with the still possible elucidation, to 
ingenuous readers. This is a thing that can be done; 
and, after some reflection, it has appeared worth doing. 
No great tiling: one other dull Book added to the thou- 
sassd, dull every o&e of them, which have been issued 
on ihis subjects Bat situated as we are, new Dulness 
is unhappily inevitable; readers do not reascend out of 
detp confusions without some trouble as they climb. 
These authentic tttterances of the man Oliver himself 
I have fathered them from far and near; fished them up 
from the foul Letfeeao quagmires where they lay buried ; 
I feavt washed, or endeavored to wash, them clean from 
foreign stupidities (such a job of buckwashing I do not 
kg to repeat); and the world shall now see them in 
tWr $wm shape. 

for long years in these unspeakable His- 
tork Provinces, it becomes more and more apparent to 
0e t Hit this fnaa Oliver Cromwell was, as the popular 
fancy represents him, the soul of the Puritan Re- 
wittioat whom it had never been a revolt trans- 
Btly memorable and an Epoch in the World's His- 
; tfeat in fact he, more than is common in such cases 
teerve to give his name to the Period in question' 
and bive the Puritan Revolt considered as a Cromwelliad, 
whicfe issue is already very visible for it And then, 
farther, altogether contrary to the popular fancy it be- 
TOM that this Oliver was not a man of false- 

T o! ^^ whose words do carr y a 

", and above all others of that time 
His words -and still more his 

mstinCtS ^ When you have spelt 
these also out of his words - 

may gather from these 


of " 



"Their works follow them:" as I think this Oliver 
Cromwell's works have done and are still doing! We 
have had our " Revolutions of Eighty-eight," officially 
called "glorious;" and other Revolutions not yet called 
" glorious ;" and somewhat has been gained for poor Man- 
kind. Men's ears are not now slit off by rash Officiality ; 
Officiality will, for long henceforth, be more cautious 
about men's ears. The tryannous Star-Chambers, brand- 
ing-irons, chimerical Kings and Surplices at All-hallow- 
tide, they are gone, or with immense velocity going. 
Oliver's works do follow him! The works of a man, 
bury them under what guano-mountains and obscene owl- 
droppings, you will, do not perish, cannot perish. What 
of Heroism, what of Eternal Life, was in a Man and his 
Life, is with very great exactness added to the Eternities ; 
remains forever a new divine portion of the Sum of 
Things; and no owl's voice, this way or that, in the 
least avails in the matter But we have to end here. 

Oliver is gone; and with him England's Puritanism 
laboriously built together by this man, and made a thing 
far-shining, miraculous to its own Century, and memora- 
ble to all the Centuries, soon goes. Puritanism, without 
its King, is kingless, anarchic; falls into dislocation, self- 
collision; staggers, plunges into ever deeper anarchy; 
King, Defender of the Puritan Faith there can now none 
be found ; and nothing but to recall the oM discrowned 
Defender, with the remnant of his Four Surplices, and 
two Centuries of Hypocrisis (or Play-acting not so- 
called), and put up with all that, the best we may. The 
Genius of England no longer soars Sunward, world- 
defiant, like an Eagle through the storms "mewing her 
mighty youth, 7 * as John Milton saw her do; the Genius 
of England, much like a greedy Ostrich intent on prov- 
ender and a whole skin mainly, stands with its other 
extremity Sunward, with its Ostrich head stuck into the 
readiest bush, of old Church-tippets, King-cloaks, or 
what other "sheltering Fallacy" there may be, and s* 
awaits the issue. The issue has been slow; but it is now 


sees to feave Been inevitable. No Ostrich, intent on gross 
terrene provender, and sticking its head into Fallacies, 
but will be awakened one day in terrible a-posteriori 
manner, if not otherwise! Awake before it come to 
that; gods and taen bid tis awake! The Voices of our 
Fathers, with thousand-fold stern monition to one and 
all, bid os awake. Cromwell: Conclusion. 

For some five years after editing Cromwell, Car- 
lyk wrote little or nothing. He had come to be per- 
sonaliy a celebrity the " great talker " of the day, 
He grew found of high society. He came to the opin- 
ion that be was bora to be a lawgiver and political 
mkr the Cromwell of his age. As a first step 
toward this position, he began to look forward to a 
scat t Parliament His views upon some great po- 
litiosocial questions were put forth at the close of 
1849 m a s&agazlfie article entitled Occasional Discourse 
0n $h& Nigger Question , subsequently reprinted as a 
pamphlet, and finally incorporated in the collected edi- 
tion of his works. The Nigger Question, which prac- 
tically involves whites as well as blacks, is thus stated : 


I sever thought the " rights of Negroes " worth much 
fisens&tng, nor the rights of men in any form. The 
fraud point is the mights of men what portion of their 
* rifta " they have a chance of getting sorted out, and 
mixed* IB this confused world. . . . West India 
ll full of waste fertility, produce abundant 
Pumpkins, however, you will observe, are 
At ws$& rapisifce for a human being. No; for a 
|% A*f ait t&e o^e thing needful ; but for a man they 
wr <n% *e irst of several things needful The first 
if Iwe; tar Hie sesi<l and remaining, how are they to 
fc* pat? * * * 

it may &e Hi&t kas a right to raise pumpkins and 


other produce on these Islands, perhaps no one can, 
except temporarily, decide. The Islands are good withal 
for pepper, for sugar, for sago, arrow-root, for coffee, 
perhaps for cinnamon and precious spices things far 
nobler than pumpkins; and leading toward Commerces, 
Arts, Politics, and Social Developments, which alone are 
the noble product where men (and not pigs with pump- 
kins), are the parties concerned! Well, all this fruit, 
too fruit spicy and commercial, fruit spiritual and 
celestial, so far beyond the merely pumpkinish and grossly 
terrene, lies in the West India lands: and the ultimate 
" proprietorship " of them why, I suppose, it will vest 
in him who can best educe them from whatever of noble 
produce they were created fit for yielding. . . . 

It was not Black Quashee, or those he represents, that 
made these West India Islands what they are; or can, 
by any hypothesis, be considered to have the right of 
growing pumpkins there. For countless ages, since they 
first mounted, oozy, on the back of earthquakes, from 
their dark bed in the Ocean deeps, and, reeking, saluted 
the tropical Sun, and ever onward till the European white 
man first saw them, some short three centuries ago, these 
Islands produced mere jungle, savagery, poison-reptiles, 
and swamp malaria. Till the white European first saw 
them they were as if not created their nobk elements 
of cinnamon, sugar, coffee, pepper black and gray, lying 
all asleep, waiting the white enchanter who should say 
to them, Awake ! . . , 

Never by act of Quashee's could one pumpkin have 
grown there to solace any human throat; nothing but 
savagery and reeking putrefaction could have grown 
there. These plentiful pumpkins, I say, therefore, are 
not his: no, they are another's; they are his only un- 
der conditions. ... If Quashee will not honestly aid 
in bringing out these sugars, cinnamons, and nobler 
products of Hie West Indian Islands, for the benefit of 
all mankind, then I say neither will the Powers permit 
Quashee to continue growing pumpkins there for his 
own lazy benefit; but will shear him out, by and by, 
like a lazy gourd overshadowing rich ground, . . 


Tfae gcsds wish, besides pumpkins, that spices and valuable 
products fce grown in their West Indies. Quashee, if 
fee will aot help in bringing out the spices, will get him- 
ielf made a slave of again (which state will be a little 
te&$ ugly than his present one), and with beneficent whip, 
since tilier methods avail not, will be compelled to 
work . . . 

Fair towards Britain it will be that Quashee give work 
for privilege to grow pumpkins. Not a pumpkin, 
Qtiastiee, uot a square yard of soil, till you agree to do 
the State so many days of service. Annually that soil 
will grow you pumpkins; but annually also, without fail, 
sMl you, for the owner thereof, do your appointed days 
of labor* The State has plenty of waste soil; but the 
State will religiously give you none of it on other terms. 
H*e State wants stigar from these Islands, and means to 
have it; wants virtuous industry in these Islands, and 
must tiave it The State demands of you such service 
as wIB bring tliese results, this latter result which in- 
eludes a!L So will the State speak by-and-by. . . . 

Alreaiif we bear of Bkck Adscript} glebes, which seems 
i prwaistitg arrangement one of the first to suggest 
ittelf in stich a complicacy. It appears the Dutch Blacks, 
w Java, are already a kind of Adscripts, after the man- 
lier of the old European serfs ; bound, by royal authority, 
to five so many days of work in a year. Is not this 
something like an approximation; the first step towards 
all manner of such ? Wherever, in British territory, there 
exists a Black man, and needful work to the just extent 
is nt to be got oat of him, such a law, in defect of a 
tetter, should be brought to bear upon him. On the 
it oogfif to be rendered possible, ought it not, for 
wen to live beside Black men, and in some just 
to cotamaad Black men, and produce West Indian 
fey means of them? West Indian fruitfulness 
wfl **! to &e produced If the English cannot find 
Hi method for that, they may rest assured there will 
welter <e (Brother Jonathan or still another) who 
can, fir Ifiyggir Qmtfion. 


The Nigger Question is styled by Carlyle a " Pre- 
cursor to the Latter-day Pamphlets," which were issued 
in eight successive months from February to August, 
1850, making in all a considerable volume. These 
pamphlets gained considerable notoriety; but not of a 
flattering kind. The general impression was that Car- 
lyle was either crazy or had taken to whiskey-drinking 
this latter being a conjecture for which there were 
no good grounds. Perhaps the best explanation of 
these strange publications is furnished by Carlyle him- 
self, as quoted by Mr. Froude. He says : 


Latter-day Pamphlets either dead or else abused and 
execrated by all mortals non flood facio, comparatively 
speaking. Had a letter from Emerson explaining that 
I was quite wrong to get so angry, etc. I really value 
those savage utterances of mine at nothing. I am glad 
only and this is an inalienable benefit that they are 
out of me. "Stump Orator," "Parliament," "Jesuit- 
ism," etc., were and are a real deliverance to me. 

In the fifth of these Latter-day Pamphlets Carlyle 
gives some advice to young Englishmen, which sounds 
strangely considering from what manner of man it 


Let the young English sou!, in whatever log;ic-shop 
or nonsense-verse establishment he may be getting his 
young idea taught how to speak and spout, and print 
sermons and review articles, and thereby show himself 
and his fond patrons that it is an idea lay this solemnly 
to heart; this is my deepest counsel to him! The idea 
you have once spoken, even if it were an idea, is no 
longer yours; it is gone from you; so much life and. 


is gmie and the vital circulation of yourself and 
your destiny and activity are henceforth deprived of it 
If you could not get it spoken, if you could still restrain 
it into silence, so much the richer are you. Better keep 
your idea while you can; let it circulate in your blood, 
and there fructify; inarticulately inciting you to good ac- 
tivities; giving to your whok spiritual life a ruddier 
health. ... Be not a Public Orator, thou brave 
young British man, thou that are now growing up to be 
something: not a Stump Orator if thou canst help it* 
Appeal not to the vulgar, with its kmg ears and seats 
tii the Cabinet; not by spoken words to the vulgar; hate 
the profane vulgar, and bid it begone. Appeal by silent 
work, by sikat suffering, if there be no work, to the 
g$d$* wlio hare nobler seats than in the Cabinet for thee. 

Talent for Literature, thou hast such a talent! Be- 
lter it mk be slow to believe it! To speak or write, 
Nature did not peremptorily order thee; but to work 
lie dkL And know this: there never was a talent even 
far real Literature not to speak of talents lost and 
daaand in doing sham Literature, but was primarily a 
talent r doing something infinitely better of the silent 
kind. Of Literature, in all ways, be shy rather than 
otherwise at present There where thott art, work, work ; 
whatever thy hand findeth to do, do it with the hand 
f a man, not of a phantasm; be that thy unnoticed 
feletsedness and exceeding great reward. Thy words, let 
them fee few, and well-ordered Love silence rather than 
speech in these days, when, for very speaking, the voice 
f man has fallen inarticulate to man; and hearts, in 
tttts fond babbling, sit dark and dumb towards one 
an$tier. Witty: above all, O be not witty; none of us 
is bcFuiu! t fee witty, under penalties; to be wise and true 
all ftp^ under the terrifokst penalties ! 

Bltvt $wag friend, dear to me, and known to me too 
ii a scssc, tifaagb newer seen nor to be seen by me 
ym im# vhat I ata noC, in the happy case to learn to le 
t$tte!g *a*l &> $ aoiBething, instead of eloquently 
talcing about wfeal has been, and was done, and may be ! 
He <M mm wtial Utfry are, and will not alter; our hope 


is in you. England's hope, and the world's, Is that there 
may once more be millions such, instead of units as now. 
Made; i fausto pede. And may future generations, ac- 
quainted again with the silences, and once more cog- 
nizant of what is noble and faithful and divine, look tack 
on us with pity and incredulous astonishment Latter- 
day Pamphlet V. 

Quite different from this estimate of literature is 
what Carlyle had written twenty-one years before: 


Could ambition always choose its own path, and were 
will in human undertakings synonymous with Faculty, 
all truly ambitious men would be men of letters. Cer- 
tainly, if we examine that love of power which enters so 
largely unto most practical calculations nay, which our 
utilitarian friends have recognized as the sole end and 
origin, both motive and reward, of all earthly enterprises, 
animating like the philanthropist, the conqueror, the 
money-changer, and the missionary we shall find that 
all other arenas of ambition, compared with this rich 
and boundless one of literature meaning thereby what- 
ever respects the promulgation of Thought are poor, 
limited, and ineffectual, . . . 

When Tamerlane had finished fmMng his pyramid of 
seventy thousand skulls, and was seen " standing- at the 
gates of Damascus glittering in steel, with Ijis battle-axe 
on his shoulder," till his fierce hosts iled on to new 
victories and new carnage, the pale oo-looker might have 
fancied that Nature was in her death-throes; for havoc 
and despair had taken possession of the earth, the sun 
of manhood seemed setting im seas of blood. Yet it 
might be, on that very gala-day of Tamerlane, a little 
boy was playing ninepins on the streets of Mentz, whose 
history was more important to man than that of 
twenty Tamerlanes. The Tartar Khan, with his shaggy 
demons of the wilderness, "passed away like a whirl- 
wind," to be forgotten forever; and that German artisan 


tta$ wrought a benefit which is yet immeasurably ex- 
panding itself ttarotigh all countries and through all times. 
What arc the conquests and expeditions of the whole 
corporation of captains from Walter the Penniless to 
Nmpokon Bonaparte compared with those "movable 
types " of JofaaiHies Faust? 

Aknre all it is ever to be kept in mind, that not by 
material but by moral force are men and their actions 
governed How noiseless is thought! No rolling of 
drams, no tramp of squadrons, or immeasurable tumult 
0f b^mge-wagoos attends its movements. In what ob- 
scure and sequestered places may the head be meditating 
which is one day to be crowned with more than imperial 
authority; for Kings and Emperors will be among its 
ttfaiaitenfig servants ; it will rule not over but in all heads, 
and with ttiese its solitary combinations of ideas, as with 
siafk formulas, bend the world to its will! The time 
may ewe ween Napoleon himself will be better known 
ioc bis laws ttiaa for Ms battles; and the victory of 
Waterloo pfuve less taoroentous than the opening of the 
irst Mediifflics* Institute. Essay on Voltaire, 

Now Voltaire was simply a man of letters; a 
** Stump-Speaker," as Carlyle was ; the stump of each 
of them being the cases of Faust's " movable types." 
Yet, of Voltaire, Carlyle goes on to say : " His doc- 
trines have affected not only the belief of the thinking 
world, but in a high degree also the conduct of the 
active and political world ; entering as a distinct ele- 
ment Into some of the most fearful civil convulsions 
European history has on record." Whether for 
or ffl, the fact is certain that it is the speakers 
nfrtm not the statesmen and the soldiers, who 
imfe been fe d&$r$ m the world. Of Carlyle himself, 
what mtm OKI be said than that he was, what he styled 
m m writer of books ? " Carlyle had fairly got 
rid f some life fejr means of the Latter-day Pamphlets, 


when he set himself down to writing the charming Life 
of Sterling, of whom there was nothing worthy of note 
except that he was a rather promising man of letters. 

Carlyle had been for years thinking of writing a 
life of Frederick the Great of Prussia. But the un- 
healthy " storm and stress " period of the Latter-day 
Pamphlets withdrew him from this labor ; and it was 
not until early in 1853 that a beginning was fairly 
made of that work which was to occupy him for the 
next twelve years. Volumes I. and II. were com- 
pleted in the spring of 1858; volume III. in the sum- 
mer of 1862; and volumes IV. and V. early in 1865. 
In his journal he thus speaks of the finishing of this 


It nearly killed me: it and my poor Jane's dreadful 
illness, now happily over. No sympathy could be found 
on earth for these horrid struggles of twelve years, nor 
happily was any needed. One Sunday evening in tfee 
end of January, I walked out with the multiplex feeling 
joy not very prominent in it, but a kind of solemn 
thankfulness traceable that I had written the last sen- 
tence of that unutterable book, and, contrary to many 
forebodings in bad hours* had actually got dooe witii it 

Carlyle had reached the age of threescore and ten. 
His life-work was as good as done, although he seemed 
to have taken a new lease of comparative health and 
spirits. The students of Edinburgh University elected 
him as their Lord Rector; his predecessor for the 
previous term of three years having been Mr. Glad- 
stone. The office is a purely honorary one, involving 
no duties except that of delivering an Inaugural Ad- 


dress, and perhaps a Valedictory at the close of the 
term. The Inaugural delivered April 2, 1866, was 
merely a plain talk, delivered without notes, and printed 
from the stoiogtapber's report. Carlyle proposed to 
spoid a few weeks In Scotland, mainly with his own 
kis&foBc The 2$rd of April had been fixed upon as 
the day of bis return to his home. But two days be- 
fore this his wife died suddenly in her carriage while 
taking a drive in the Park. Carlyle was deeply moved 
by this stwWan deprivation. Near the close of the year 
he was persuaded by some friends to accompany them 
t*> Hestaot in Southern France, close by the Italian 
frontier. Here he remained until the next March, 
busying himself in part by writing some Reminiscences 
of former days; which, however, were not published 
until after his death. But he grew weary of this 
balmy dime, and longed for his old London home. In 
his journal he thus discloses his frame of mind at this 


M&rck $ t 1157, Health very bad, cough et cetera, but 
practptliy indigestion can have no real improvement 
till I sc Chelsea again. Courage 1 get through the jour- 
ney taiiitr qualiter, am! don't have any more. I am very 
sad and weak, but not discouraged or indignant as some- 
times. I live mostly alone with vanished shadows of 
Hie i$t Many of them rise for a moment inexpressibly 
tenter. One is never long absent from me. Gone, gone, 
fenf -my beautiful and dear. Eternity, which cannot be 
fear ff , is my <Kie strong city. I look into it fixedly 
mA ttNHL All terrors about it seem to me super- 
i; *I fcucmtedge akmt it, any the least glimmer of 
*Wto$ fcwwWge impossible to living mortal. The tmi- 
: fe fell 0f Icwe, but also of inexorable sternness and 
" r w^i it rwiafus fiH^ever true that God reigns. 
* - ' 


Carlyle returned to his old home at Chelsea. There 
was an evident demand for a uniform edition of his 
works ; and he set about revising them. In this edition 
they make thirty goodly octavo volumes. Of these, 
Frederick forms ten volumes; the Miscellanies, six; 
CromweU, five; the French Revolution, three; the Life 
of Schiller; Heroes and Hero-Worship; Past and Pres- 
ent; Latter-day Pamphlets; and the Life of Sterling, 
each one volume. The translations of Wilhelm Meis- 
tcr and German Romance are not included in the works. 
Subsequently the quite unimportant books, The Par- 
traits of John Knox and The Kings of Norway, were 
written ; and to the entire Works of Carlyle should be 
added the posthumous Reminiscences. 

Carlyle was now a fairly rich man. His income 
from his books was far more than sufficient to meet 
his expenditures, and to leave him much which was 
applied to unostentatious private charity. His days of 
comparative poverty indeed came to an end in 1842, 
when, upon the death of her mother, the estate of 
Craigenputtock reverted .to Jane Carlyle. By the death 
of his wife this estate the value of which had con- 
siderably increased became the property of Carlyle. 
All the kindred of his wife were dead ; and there was 
no person bearing her name of Welsh to whom 
Craigenputtock could be left Carlyle did not think it 
meet that this property should go into his own family. 
It should, he thought, revert to the public, yet in such 
a way as to keep up the name of Welsh. So he had 
a formal deed drawn up by whkh Craigenputtock, 
after his death, should be the property of the Uni- 
versity of Edinburgh, the income to be appropriated 
to the support of poor and meritorious students, tinder 


the titk of M The John Welsh Bursaries," John Welsh, 
the father of Jane Carlyle, being the one through whom 
the estate had descended to the Carlyles. 

In 1874 Mr, Disraeli, just then made Prime Min- 
ister, evidently supposing that Carlyle's pecuniary 
means were restricted, offered to confer upon him the 
Grand Crms of the Bath, together with a pension of 
lyoo the utmost whkh the Crown could grant for 
eminent literary service done to the nation. This offer 
was thus gracefully declined by Carlyle : 


Your splendid and generous proposals for my practi- 
cal beltoof must not any of them take effect. Titles 
of kT are, in til degrees of them, out of keeping 
with the tenor of my own poor existence hitherto in 
tliis epocfe of the world, and would be an Incumbrance 
ttsd not a furtherance to me. As to money, it has, after 
leaf years of rigorous and frugal, but also (thank God, 
and tfeose that are gone before me,) not degrading, pov- 
erty, become in this latter time amply abundant, even 
superabundant ; more of it, too, now a hindrance, not a 
liefp to nte; so that the royal or other bounty would 
fee fisore than thrown away in my case. And, in brief, 
tlstf, except the feeling of your fine and noble conduct 
op this occasion, which is a real and permanent posses- 
mm, there cannot anything be done that would not now 
Ic a sorrow rather than a pleasure. 

Carlyle completed his serenty-eighth year on De- 
cwber 4 1873. He ted already nearly lost the use 
f fcis right band, and was obliged to dictate to an 
Bat m this day he managed to write in 
few Hues m his journal the last legible 
Cftr written by Mm: 



A life without work in it, as mine now is, has less and 
less worth to me; nay, sometimes a feeling of disgrace 
and blame is in me; the poor soul still vividly enough 
alive, but struggling in vain under the imprisonment o 
the dying or half -dead body. For many months past, 
except for idle reading, I am pitifully idle. Shame, 
shame! I say to myself; but I cannot help it Great and 
strange glimpses of thought come to me at intervals, bat 
to prosecute and fix them down is denied me. Weak, 
too weak, the flesh, though the spirit is willing. 

But the vital powers were strong enough to hold 
out for eight years more. He still retained his in- 
terest in passing events, and though his memory of 
names and places gradually failed, he still talked at 
times, almost to the last, with much of his old spirit. 
But early in 1881 it became evident that the end was 
rapidly approaching. His power of speech failed him 
on the evening of February 4; and he passed quietly 
away the next morning at the age of eighty-five years 
and two months. 

It seemed to be taken for granted that be would be 
laid to rest in Westminster Abbey. Dean Stanley 
made a formal offer to that effect But Carlyle had 
directed otherwise, He would be buried by the side 
of his father and his mother in the old churchyard of 
his native Ecclefechan. Thither the remains were car- 
ried by rail, accompanied by only three of his London 
friends. There were no religious ceremonies at the 
grave nothing which indicated that any clergyman 
was present. This, however, was in accordance with 
custom in Scotland, where the funeral prayers are of- 
fered at a private house, either before or after the 


interment So had been buried the father and mother 
of Carfyk; and m be had desired to be buried. 

IAN, WILLIAM BLISS, an American poet and 
essayist; born at Fredericton, N. B., April 15, 
1861. An account of himself is given in the 

ietter written by him to the editor of The 
Critic m 1896: 



Dttjr Tout: A little bird (whose life pray spare!) tells 
me t&at you desire the main facts in the life of a certain 
raiBor fetid. A smik of the broadest Cheshire over- 
spreads y countenance as I bethink me what a beauti- 
Id tak I aM unfold for your credulous sympathy, if 
afy I tared But what dealer in fiction ever had the 
courage 01 his imagiiiatiofi ? Not I, indeed. In the first 
ybfit you must know that this particular bardling is 
Ukn upon sad and evil days of late, being accounted 
% bis fellows a monstrous egotistic and over-rated per- 
m, Tfeis is good for him, as for all poets and artistic 
; never was a race more in need of humility than 
r. Therefore I warn yem give him not too much of 
vtJwt over your claw. Now I, being cognizant of 
iw^ Htitif% reommt fen! to jm feaJy, to be dressed 
m ywr nwt m^Mioms or heart-breaking strain 
ft as tk; a^orfiglit may encourage you ajad 

tar (since Due roust cot^lescend to become 
s&mewktrr m Ihb earlfc) at Fmlericton, on the 
St JWht MW* te Mm Bnn^wi^ April 15, 1861. His 
^^r waa mm Wi&m Oramn, t lawyer, whose life is 
iMtter Ert fiwrring than ever his som's 



be a man of But you don't want that, fine though 

it is. His mother was of the Bliss family of Concord, 
Mass. All his people were of Loyalist descent He was 
educated or, rather, he went to school (until 1878) 
to George R. Parkin, the Imperial Federationist, whom 
he considers, after many years, the greatest teacher he 
has ever known. He was graduated from the University 
of New Brunswick in 1881, with some honors. But his 
chief memory of those days is of an ideal home beside 
an idyllic river, the indulgent love of many friends and 
the hatred of no one, Later years, until I&S8, he spent 
in private reading and study at Edinburgh and Harvard. 
Also, he has taught school (which he vows the most 
odious of all human occupations), read law and followed 
the engineer's compass in the field. In 1890 he went 
to New York for a few days and remained three years 
or thereabout, as office editor of The Independent. Also, 
he has been connected with The Cosmopolitan and The 
Atlantic, on temporary engagements; and in the spring 
of 1894 he was guilty of starting The Chaf>-Book f which 
he conducted for two or three months, and with which 
he expects to be credited (or taxed) for years to come, 
though he has long since condoned tliat undertaking. 
Then his Works! Low Tide on Gromd Pr& (1893), sec- 
ond edition (1894) ; Songs from Vagabondia (1894), with 
Richard Hovey; A Seamark: a Threnody for R. L. Stev- 
enson (1895) ; Behmd the Arrs: A Book of the Unsem 
(1895); ^<&e Songs from Vagabond* (1896). 

In the last few years yotir asfHrant has spent much of 
liis winters in Washington, and mud* of feis summers 
on Grand Pre. Partly because they are beautiful places, 
and more because his friends are there. 

And the wheel! He cherishes a black, bitter, be- 
nighted bigotry against that harmless fmt undignified con- 
veyance. And seeing trousered women ride through the 
streets of Boston, he is given to curse. Not while he has 
strength to dip a paddle in a mill pond, or intellect enough 
remaining to count a stack of poker chips, will he forsake 
these infinite amusements for any such base utilitarian 
thing as wheels. Bicycles are only fit for children and 
VOL. V.I2 


letter-carriers. The moment a gentleman puts his leg 
ver one of them he becomes a " gent." 

Now, Tm for Heaven's sake, chew this up well. The 
artist must be egotistic; but his name should be sup- 
pressed. Because he feels acutely, he imagines he is an 
entity or souse such thing. He is not He is nobody. 
AIM! be ought to be kept strictly in private life. Let his 
work stand or fall on its own worth. He himself, like 
all his feBows* passes to the dust and the shadow. And 
if yHi will look for the source of this man's attempts at 
poetry, you will find them in Emerson and Arnold and 
Swintmnit, and most of all in Browning. There is little 
influence of any others. His first poem of any conse- 
quence was printed in The Atlantic (" Low Tide on 
Grand PT W ) in 1889, and it was not until about 1886 
he feegaa to it words together into lines, 


Tiie while the river at our feet 
A drowsy inland meadow stream 

At set of sue the after-heat 
Made running gold, and in the gleam 
We freed our birch upon the stream. 

There, down along the elms at dusk, 
We lifted dripping blade to drift, 

Through twilight scented fine like musk, 
Where night and gloom a while uplift, 
Nor sunder soul and soul adrift 

And that we took into our hands 
Spirit of life or subtler thing 

Breathed on tts there, and loosed the bands 
Of death, and taught us, whispering, 
Tfee secret of some wonder-thing. 

Ttiai all your face grew light, and seemed 
Tu bM tbe shadow of the sun; 


The evening faltered, and I deemed 
The time was ripe, and years had done 
Their wheeling underneath the sun. 

From Low Tide on Grand Pre. 


There is something in the autumn that is native to my 

Touch of manner, hint of mood; 
And my heart is like a rhyme 

With the yellow and the purple and the crimson keep- 
ing time, 

O, the scarlet of the maple-trees can shake me like the 

Of the bugles going by, 
And my lonely spirit thrills 
When I see the frosty asters like a smoke upon the hills. 

There is something in October sets the gypsy blood astir; 
And we rise and follow her, 
When from every hill of flame 

She is calling, calling, calling every vagabond by name- 
From More Songs from 

Mr. Carman's later works include Last Songs from 
Fagabondia (1900) ; A Winter Holiday (1902) ; Bal- 
lads of Lost Haven ( 1903) ; and two volumes of prose 
essays, The Kinship of Nature (1903); The 
Friendship of Art ( 1904) ; and From the Book of 
Valentines (1905). During 1903-4 he was editor of 
The Literary World. 


fARNEGIE, ANDREW, an American iron-master 
and philanthropist ; born at Dunfermline, Scot- 
land, November 25, 1837. When he was a 
mere child his father brought his family to America, 
The SOBS, of whom Andrew was the eldest, found em- 
ployment, and whik still young men engaged in the 
iron manufacturing business at Pittsburg, Pa., where 
they made a large fortune. When twelve years old 
Andrew began work as a telegraph messenger, became 
an operator and later manager of the Pennsylvania 
Haibtawi office at Pittsburg. He was soon promoted 
to be manager of the Pittsburg Division of the Pennsyl- 
vania Railroad, and successful ventures with Woodruff, 
inventor of the sleeping-car, and in the oil fields, were 
followed by the establishment of a rolling-mill, which 
expanded until Mr. Carnegie controlled iron and steel 
interests aggregating some $200,000,000. Mr. Car- 
negie has given large sums for the establishment of 
free libraries in Scotland and America. 

In 1874 Andrew Carnegie made a visit to his native 
lanl Of this visit he wrote a pleasant account, An 
Ammcm Four-m-kmd in Britain (1876). In 1878 
fee set out upon an extensive course of travel, of which 
he wrote an account, entitled Round the World ( 1884) . 
In 1886 he published a work, Democracy Triumphant, 
the w Fifty Years* March of the Republic," 
aboanding with carefully prepared statistical in- 
In 1900 be polished The Gospel of 
; m ioa The Em$w$ of Business, and in 1905, 
Uf* ^ J$m fFmt In the American Fcmr-in-Hand 
he gfai m miiiilsceiice of his departure for America, 
m& mm before: 




We landed at the Broomilaw [on the Gyde near Glas- 
gow] whither father and mother and Tom and I sailed 
thirty odd years ago, and began our seven weeks* voyage 
to the Land of Promise poor emigrants in quest of 
fortune; but not without thoughts in the radical breasts 
of our parents that it was advisable to leave the land 
which tolerated class distinctions, . . . My father 
saw through not only the sham but the injustice of rank, 
from the King to the Knight; and loved America be- 
cause she knows no difference in her sons. He was a 
Republican aye, every inch and his sons glory ia 
that, and follow where he led. . . . Thanks to the 
generous Republic, which stood with open arms to re- 
ceive us, as she stands to-day to welcome the poor of 
the world to share with her own sons, upon equal terms, 
the glorious heritage with which she is endowed^ A 
American Four-in-hand in Britain. 

In his Dem-ocracy Triumphant, Mr. Carnegie gives, 
incidentally, an account of his first actual step toward 
fortune : 


Well do I remember tiiat, wfeen a clerk m the senrke 
of the Pennsylvania Railroad Company, a tall, spare, 
farmer-looking kind of man came to me once, wfoen I 
was sitting on the end seat of the rear car, looking over 
the line. He said he had been toM by the conductor 
that I was connected with the railroad company, and 
he wished me to look at an invention lie had made. 
With that he drew from a green bag a small model of a 
sleeping-berth for railway cars. He had not spoken a 
minute before, like a flash, the whole range of the dis- 
covery burst upon me. "Yes," I said, "that is some- 
thing which the Continent must have." I promised to 
address him on the subject as soon as I had talked over 


the matter with my superior, Thomas A. Scott. Upon 
mj return I laid it before Mr. Scott, declaring that it 
was otic of the inventions of the age. He remarked, 
** You art enthusiastic, young man ; but you may ask 
the inrentor to come and let me see it." I did so, and 
arrangements were made to build two cars, and run them 
on tiie Pennsylvania Railroad. 

I was offered an interest in the venture, which, of 
course, I gladly accepted. Payments were to be made 
10 per tent per month after the cars were delivered. 
This was all very satisfactory until the notice came that 
mj share of the first payment was $217.50; but that 
aatcmnt was as far beyond my means as if it had been 
millions. I was earning $50 per month, however, and 
felt tiiat I had prospects. I decided to call upon the 
local banker, Mr. Lloyd, state the case, and boldly ask 
fesm to advance tlie stun tipon my interest in the affair, 
He put tits hand upon my shoulder, and said, " Why, of 
oKirse, Andie; you are all right Go ahead. Here is 
the money/* It is a proud day for a man when he pays 
Ms Jo* note, but not to be named in comparison with 
the day in which he makes his first one, and gets a banker 
to tafce it I have tried both, and I know. 

The cars paid their subsequent payments from their 
earnings. I paid my first note from my savings, so much 
per month: and thus did I get my foot upon fortune's 
ladder. It is easy to climb after that. And thus came 
sleeping-cars into the world. Blessed be the man who 
invented sleeping-cars! Let me record his name, and 
testify my gratitude to him. It was my dear, quiet, mod- 
*, truthful, farmer-looking friend, T. T. Woodruff, one 
f Hie teiefietors of the age. Triumphant Democracy. 

fa Hie autumn of 1878 Mr. Carnegie set out on an 
fal trip "Round the World." The book in 
lie itmrds tlie incidents of this journey is " af- 
y mcribed to my Brother and trusty Asso- 
ciates, wlio MM at krae that I might spend abroad." 
la tte wprk fee tbas sums tip what he regards as one 


of the great advantages to be derived from foreign 
travel : 


Another advantage to be derived from a journey round 
the world, is, I think, that the sense of the brotherhood 
of man the unity of the race is very greatly strength- 
ened thereby. For one sees that the virtues are the 
same in all lands; and produce their good fruits, and 
render their possessors blessed in Benares or Kioto as in 
London or New York; that the vices, too, are akin; 
and also that the motives which govern men and their 
actions and aims are very much the same all the world 
over. . , . We know now that all the children of 
the earth dwell under the reign of the same divine law; 
and that for each and every one that law evolves through 
all ages the higher from the lower the good from the 
evil; slowly but surely separating the dross from the 
pure gold; disintegrating what is pernicious to the race: 
so that the feeling that formerly told us that we alone 
had special care bestowed upon us gives place to the 
knowledge that every one, in his day and generation, 
wherever found, receives the truth best fitted for his 
elevation from tliat state to the next higher; and so 
" ilka blade o' grass keps its ain drap o* dew/' and grows 
its own frait after its kind. For these and many oilier 
reasons, kt all thoughtful souls follow my example, and 
visit their brethren from one land to another till the 
circle is complete. Rownd ike World. 

Much more ambitious in its aim is the work 
phant Democracy. In the Preface he says : " Born 
a subject of the Monarchy, adopted a citizen of the 
Republic, how could it be otherwise than that I should 
love both lands, and kmg to do what in me lay to 
bring their people to share that love for each other? " 
The keynote of the work is struck in the opening 
paragraphs : 



Ttie oM nations of the earth creep on at a snail's 
pace; the Republic thunders past with the rush of the 
Eicpress, Ttoe United States the growth of a single 
century hat already reached the foremost rank among 
nations, and is destined soon to outdistance all others 
in the race. In population, in wealth, in annual sav- 
ings, and In public credit; in freedom from debt, in agri- 
eulture, and in manufactures, America already leads 
the civilized world France, with her fertile plains and 
sunny skies, requires 160 years to grow two Frenchmen 
wliare oie grew before. Great Britain whose rate of 
increase it greater than that of any other European 
country takes seventy years to double her population. 
The Republic has frequently doubled hers in twenty- 
ive. In 1831 Great Britain and Ireland contained twenty- 
four millions of people, and fifty years later thirty- 
fetiT millions; France increased during the same period 
fnoua thirty-two millions to thirty-seven millions. The 
Mepublic "bounded from thirteen millions to fifty millions. 
England gained ten, France five, the United States thirty- 
idreit millions. Thus the Republic, in one half-century, 
added to fief number as many as the present total popula- 
tion of France, and more than the present population 
f tfoe United Kingdom, . . . Truly, the Republic is 
Hie Minerva of nations. . . . Full-armed has she 
from the brow of Jupiter-Britain. The thirteen 
of Americans have now [1886] increased to fifty- 
six millions : more English-speaking individuals than exist 
la al Hie world besides. Triumphant Democracy, Chap. I. 


f talk of Canada, or any mere Colony? What 
* wfett inve&tkm, what statue or picture what any- 
lu^ m colony ever produced? or what man has 
s &p In a Colour who has become known beyond 
Ms wru loem! <iistfkt? None. Nor can a Colony ever 


give to mankind anything of value beyond wood, corn, 
and beef. If Canada and the Australian Colonies were 
free and independent republics, the world would soon 
see the harvest of Democracy in noble works and in 
great minds. And for the mother of these nations the 
result would be infinitely better, even as to trade. Besides, 
she would be far prouder of her progeny : which, in itself, 
is not a bad return for a fond mother like her. Trium- 
phant Democracy, Chap. F. 


The farms of America comprise 837,628 square miles 
an area nearly equal to one- fourth of Europe, and 
larger than the four greatest European countries (Rus- 
sia excepted) put together: namely, France, Germany, 
Austria and Hungary, and Spain. The capital invested 
in agriculture would suffice to buy up the whole of Italy, 
with its olive-groves and vineyards, its old historical 
cities, cathedrals, and palaces, and every other feudal 
appurtenance. Or, if the American farmers were to sell 
out, they could buy the entire peninsula of Spain, with 
all its traditions of mediaeval grandeur; and tlie fiat lauds 
which the Hollanders, at vast cost, have wrested from 
the sea, and tlie quaint ok! towns they have built there, 
If be dbose to put by Ms savings for three years the 
Yankee farmer could pttrcliase the fee-smipk of pretty 
Switzerland and not touch his capital at aH Trwmpktmi 
Democracy, Chap. IX 


The assimilation of the political institutions of the 
two countries proceeds apace, by the action of the older 
in the direction of the newer land. Year after year some 
difference is obliterated. Yesterday it was an extension 
of suffrage; to-day it is universal and compulsory educa- 
tion: to-morrow the joining of law and equity; on the 
next day it will be the abolition of primogeniture and 
entail. A few years more, and all that remains of ttie 


fcudalistic times will have disappeared, and the political 
institutions of the two divisions will be practically the 
same, with only such slight variations of structure as 
adapt them to the slightly varying conditions by which 
tiiey mine summnded. 

It has always been niy chief ambition to do what lit- 
tle I can if anything to hasten this process, that the 
two dirisiotis may thereby be brought more closely into 
unison; that the bonds between my dear native land 
mud my beloved adopted land may be strengthened, and 
draw tliem more tightly together. For sure am I who 
aim iti part a chiM of both, and whose love for the one 
and the ottier is as the love of man for mother and 
wile sure am I that the better these grand divisions 
of the British race know each other, the stronger will 
grow ttie attachment between them. And just as sure 
am I that in tlieir genuine affection and indissoluble 
alliance Ik the best hopes for the elevation of the human 
rm&, God grant, tiierefore, that the future of my native 
and adopted lauds may fulfil the hopes of the stanchest, 
ablest, and fisost powerful friend of this land, the Great 
CofutnofieT of his own, that, "although they may be two 
Nations, they may be but one People. " Thus spoke John 
Bright; ami, echoing once more that fond hope, I lay 
down my pen, and bid my readers, on both sides of the 
Atlantic, farewell Triumphant Democracy, Chap. XX. 

lish biologist; born at Exeter, October 29, 
1813; died at London, November 19, 1885. 
latter, the Rev, Dr. Lant Carpenter, Unitarian 
twaored to Bristol m 1817, and the son was 
d hi tihat city. He began the study of medi- 
cine with Dr. J. B. Estlin, of Bristol, and some time 
after ^wei^ifed this physician OE a visit to the West 


Indies. He resumed his studies on his return to Bris- 
tol, and continued them in 1834 at University Col- 
lege, and Middlesex Hospital, London, and in 1835 
at Edinburgh, where he was graduated in 1839. Dur- 
ing a part of this time he had been Lecturer on Medi- 
cal Jurisprudence in the Bristol Medical School. In 
1844 he was appointed Fullerian Professor of Physi- 
ology in the Royal Institution, and in the same year 
was made a Fellow of the Royal Society, lecturer or 
professor in the London Hospital and University Col- 
lege (1849), Principal of University Hall (1852), and 
Registrar of the University of London (1856). He 
edited a Popular Cyclopedia of Science (1843), an ^ 
from 1847 to 1852 was the editor of the British and 
Foreign Medico-Chirurgical Review. Among his 
many published scientific works are: Principles of 
Human Physiology; Animal Physiology; The Micro- 
scope and Its Revelations; Use of Alcoholic Liquors; 
Physiology of Temperance; Mesmerism and Spiritual- 
ism; Nature and Man. Dr. Carpenter received medals 
from the Royal and Geological Societies, the degree 
of LLJX from Edinburgh, and in 1873 w^ 8 K*ade a 
corresponding member of the Institute of France. 


But having happened long since to speak on the sub-* 
ject to Professor Max Muller, I learned from him the 
additional very important fact, that this condition of self- 
induced suspension of vital activity, forms, as it were, 
the climax of a whole series of states, with two of which 
I was myself very familiar * ekctrobiology," or arti- 
ficial reverie, and "hypnotism," or artificial somnambu- 
lism; both of them admirably studied by Mr. Braid, 
through whose kindness I had many opportunities of in- 
vestigating their phenoiBeiia. The self-induction of these 


states, ractited by the Hindoo devotees, is part of a 
system of a religious philosophy which is termed the 
Yoga; and by the kindness of Professor Max Muller I 
posW a very curious account of this philosophy, pnnted 
at Benares twenty-two years ago, by Sub-Assistant Sur- 
ftae Paul, who had carefully studied it It appears from 
this that tlie object of the whole system is to induce a 
state of mystkal self-contemplation, tending to the ab- 
orptioo of the soul of the individual into the Supreme 
Sod, the Creator, Preserver, and Destroyer of the World; 
and tltat tiie fower forms of it consist in the adoption of 
certain fed postures, which seem to act much in the 
same way with the fixation of the vision in Mr, Braid's 
methods. The first state, prdndydma, corresponds very 
etoiety with tliat of reverie or abstraction ; the mind being 
fumed "m Bf>ao itself and entirely given up to devout 
mMti&m t but tlie sensibility to external impressions 
mi lanf aftofetfeer suspended The second state, pra- 
tffjjym, is one which the external senses being closed, 
while tt*e mind is still active corresponds with some 
fonas of soraaaintrnJim Those who have attained the 
power of inducing this condition then practise dhatr&na, a 
stage of complete quiescence of body and mind, corre- 
sponding with what is known as catalepsy the body 
remaining in any posture in which it may be placed. 
From this they pass into the dhydna, in which they believe 
themselves to be surrounded by flashes of external light 
or electricity, and thus to be brought into communion 
with the Universal Sod, which endows them with a clair- 
voyant power. And tie final state of samddhi, which 
tfeey tibeiaselves Hken to the hibernation of animals, and in 
which tibe respiratory movements are suspended, is re- 
as tfeat of absolute mental tranquillity, which, ac- 
ID these mystics, is the highest state which man 
attain; the individual being absolutely incapable of 
sis k thought, act, or speech, and having his 
&oagta completely occupied with the idea of Brahma or 
At Sspreaae Soil wifeont any effort of his own mind 
Natere 9*d Me*. 


ARTWRIGHT, WILLIAM, an English dergy- 
man and dramatist; born at Northway, near 
Tewkesbury, September, 1611 ; died at Oxford, 
November 29, 1643, He was the son of an inn-keeper, 
was educated at Oxford and became a popular and 
eloquent preacher. In 1643 he was chosen Junior 
Proctor and Reader in Metaphysics in the University, 
a few months before his sudden death. He was dis- 
tinguished by graceful and attractive manners and by 
extraordinary industry, though his fame rests upon 
his personal popularity and the favorable criticism 
of his fellow-poets, especially Ben Jonson, rather than 
upon the merit of his verses. He wrote The Ordinary; 
The Royal Slave, a tragi-comedy ; The Lady Errant, 
a tragi-comedy; and The Siege, or L&otfs Convert. 
A collection of his comedies, tragi-comedles, and other 
poems was published in 1647, and again in 1651. 


But thott still ptttf st true passion cm : dost write 
With the same ccmrage tiat tried captains igfet; 
Giv'st the right blush and color unto tMags; 
Low without creeping, high without loss of wings; 
Smooth yet not weak; and, by a thorough care. 
Big without swelling, without painting fair. 


When the old, flaming Prophet climbed the sky 
Who at one glimpse did vanish, and not die, 
He made more preface to a death than this: 
So far from sick, she did not breathe amiss. 
She who to Heaven more heaven doth annex, 
Whose lowest thought was above all our sex, 


Accounted nothing death but to be reprieved, 
And died as free from sickness as she lived. 
Others are dragged away, or must be driven ; 
She only saw her time, and stepped to Heaven, 
Where Seraphims view all her glories o'er, 
As one returned who had been there before. 
For while she did this lower world adorn, 
Her body seemed rather assumed than born: 
So rarefied, advanced, so pure and whole, 
That Body might have been another's Soul; 
And equally a miracle it were 
That she cotiM die, or that she could live here. 


Cfeloe, why wish you that your years 
Would backward run, till they met mine? 

That |jerfect likeness, which endears 
Things unto things, might us combine. 

Gsr ages so in dates agree, 

That twins do differ more than we. 

There are two births; the one when light 
First strikes the new awakened sense; 

The other when two souls unite; 
And we must count our life from thence: 

When you loved me, and I loved you, 

Then both of us were born anew. 

|ARUS, PAUL, a German-American philosopher, 
essayist, and editor; born in Ilsenburg, Ger- 
mmj, Jtily 18, 1852. He was educated at the 
at Stettin and at the University of Strass- 
, m& m 1876 was graduated from the University 
of Taiigm He removed to the United States in 
and settW IB Chicago, III, where he became 



editor of The Open Court and of the Monist. He Is 
regarded as a leading authority on Buddhism. His 
numerous books include The Ethical Problem; Funda- 
mental Problems; The Soul of Man; A Primer of 
Philosophy; Truth in Fiction; Monism and Meliorism; 
The Religion of Science; The Philosophy of the Tool; 
Our Need of Philosophy; Science, a Religious Revela- 
tion; The Gospel of Buddhism; Karma; Nirvana; 
Homilies of Science; Chinese Philosophy; The Idea of 
a Cod; Buddhism and the Christian Critics; The Dawn 
of a New Era; Kant and Spencer; The Nature of the 
State; The History of the Devil; Whence and 
Whither; Eros and Psyche; The Age of Christ 
(1903), and The Surd of Metaphysics (1904). 

Dr. Carus has presented the English speaking world 
with what is perhaps the most notable exposition of 
Buddhism, and has drawn some unique comparisons 
between that religion and the more modern Chris- 
tianity. While inclined to be radical, and at times an 
extremist, Dr. Carus is one of the most original thinfe 
ers of his generation, 


The strength as well as the weakness of original Bud- 
dhism lies in its philosophical character, which enabled a 
thinker, but not the masses, to understand the dispensa- 
tion of the moral law that pervades the workL As such, 
the original Buddhism has been called by Buddhists the 
little vessel of salvation, or Hinayina; for it is compara- 
ble to a small boat on which a man may cross the stream 
of worldliness, so as to reach the shore of Nirvana. Fol- 
lowing the spirit of a missionary propaganda, so natural 
to religious men who are earnest in their convictions, 
later Buddhists popularized Buddha's doctrines and made 
them accessible to the multitudes. It is true that they 


admitted many mythical and even fantastical notions, but 
ttief succeeded nevertheless in bringing its moral truths 
home to the peopk who could but incompletely grasp the 
philosophical meaning of Buddha's religion. They con- 
structed, as they called It, a large vessel of salvation, the 
Mahsyana, in which the multitudes would find room and 
could be safely carried over. Although the Mahayana 
unquestionably lias its shortcomings, it must not' be con- 
demned offhand, for it serves its purpose. Without re- 
garding it as the final stage of the religious development 
of the nations among which it prevails, we must concede 
tliat if remitted from an adaptation to their condition and 
bas looOTpltsiied much to educate them. The Mahayana 
It m skf* forward in so far as it changes a philosophy into 
a rdlfioQ, and attempts to preach doctrines that were 
negatively expressed, is positive propositions. 

Far from rejecting the religious zeal which gave rise 
to tlie MaMyaaa in Buddhism, we can still less join 
ttt*e wfeo denounce Christianity on account of its dog- 
aatdcagy and mythological ingredients, Christianity has 
% fpeat mission in the evolution of mankind It has suc- 
ceeded in imbuing with the religion of charity and mercy 
the most powerful nations of the world, to whose spiritual 
needs it is especially adapted. It extends the blessings 
of universal gpod-wil! with the least possible amount of 
antagonism to the natural selfishness that is so strongly 
developed in the Western races. Christianity is the re- 
%wi 0f love made easy. This is its advantage, which, 
Iiwever, is not without its drawbacks, Christianity 
todies charity without dispelling the ego-illusion; and 
m this eme it surpasses even fee Mahayana: it is still 
adapted to the needs of mnltitades than a large 
toed to carry over tiiose who embark on it: it is 
to a great bridge, a Mahisetti, on which a 
^ no comprehetisioo as yet of the nature of 
f ** *&WHB of self-hood and worldly vanity. 
A comparison <f the many striking arguments between 
dife^^% and Busleliism inay prove fata! to sectarian 
c*iicftkw either religion, but will in the end help to 
mature oar insight tato the true significance of both. It 


will bring out a nobler faith which aspires to be the cos- 
mic religion of universal truth. From the Preface to 
The Gospel of Buddhism. 


When Bhagavant dwelt at Shravasti in the Jetavana, 
he went out with his alms-bowl to beg for food and ap- 
proached the house of a Brahman priest while the fire of 
an offering was blazing upon the altar. And the priest 
said: " Stay there, O shaveling; stay there, O wretched 
shramana; thou art an outcast" 

The Blessed One replied: "Who is an outcast? 

"An outcast is the man who is angry and bears ha- 
tred; the man who is wicked and hypocritical, he who 
embraces error and is full of deceit 

" Whosoever is a provoker and is avaricious, has sinful 
desires, is envious, wicked, shameless, and without fear 
to commit sins, let him be known as an outcast 

" Not by birth does one become an outcast, not by birth 
does one become a Brahman; by deeds one becomes an 
outcast, by deeds one becomes a Brahman.** The Gospel 
of Buddhism. 


Amanda, the favorite disciple of Btiddfaa, toying been 
sent by &e Locd on a mission* passed by a well near a 
village, and seeing Prakriti, a girl of tiie Katanga caste, 
foe asked feer for water to driok. 

Prakriti said, * O Brahman, I am too temfele and mean 
to give you water to drink, do not ask any service of me 
kst your holiness be contaminated* for I am of low 

And Arnoda replied: "I ask aoC for caste but for 
water; " and the Mitanga girl's heart leaped joyfully and 
die gave Anaada to drink. 

Aiiaada thanked her and went away; but stie followed 
him at a distance. 

Having heard that Ananda was a disciple of Gautama 
Shakyamuni, the girl repaired to the Blessed One and 
VOL. V. 13 


cried: **O Lord help me, and let me live in the place 
wtoerc Auaada thy disciple dwells, so that I may see him 
and minister unto him, for I love Ananda." 

And the Blessed One understood the emotions of her 
Iteait and he said: "Prakriti, thy heart is full of love, 
kit you do not understand your own sentiments. It is 
no! Ananda whom you love, but his kindness. Receive, 
then, the kindness you have seen him practise unto you, 
and in tfee humility of your station practise it unto 

** Verily tliere is great merit in the generosity of a king 
wbeo lie is kind to a skve; but there is a greater merit 
in tlte slave when ignoring the wrongs which he suffers 
he cherishes kindness and good-will to all mankind. He 
will cease to hate his oppressors, and even when powerless 
to resist their usurpation will with compassion pity their 
arrogance and supercilious demeanor. 

* Blessed ait them, Prakrit:, for though you are a Ma- 
tauga you wiH be a model for noblemen and noblewomen. 
You are of low caste, but Brahmans will learn a lesson 
frotn ytm. Swerve not from the path of justice and right- 
eousness and you will outshine the royal glory of queens 
m the throne/' The Gospel of Buddhism. 

, ALICE and PHCEBE, American poets ; bom 
near Cincinnati, O., the former April 26, 1820, 
and the latter September 4, 1824. They were 
educated at home. IE 1849 they published conjointly 
a iT'cAnne of Poems; and in the following year, upon 
the of their mother, th^y removed to New York 

Gty 8 ^iiere they resided during the remainder of their 
frro, died there February 12, 1871 ; and her 

foertawd sister survived her but a few months, dying 
at Newport, It L, July 31, of the same year. In 1869 



they had together prepared a volume entitled From 
Year to Year; and two years after their death their 
Last Poems was published. Alice, who was the more 
voluminous writer of the two, had early become known 
as " Patty Lee " by her contributions to the National 
Era. In her name were issued Clovernook (1852- 
53); Hagar (1852); Lyra (1852-55); Clovernook 
Children (1854); Married, Not Mated (1856); Pic- 
tures of Country Life (1859) ; Ballads, Lyrics, and 
Hymns (1865); The Bishop's Son (1867); Snow- 
Berries (1867) ; and A Lover's Diary (1867). Phoebe 
published in her own name Poems and Parodies 
(1854) ; and Poems of Faith, Hope and Love (1867). 
Horace Greeley used to tell with much pleasure 
how the Gary sisters came to New York to make their 
living by literature; and how, renting first a cheap 
little house, they gradually built up a home of their 
own which became known far and wide as a literary 
centre : * Their parlor was not so large as some others, 
but quite as neat and cheerful; and the few literary 
persons or artists who occasionally met, at their in- 
formal invitation, to discuss with tibem a cup of tea 
and the newest books, poems, and events, might have 
found many more pretentious, but few more enjoyable, 
gatherings. I have a dim recofleetioe that the irst 
of these little tea-parties was held tip two flights of 
stairs, in one of the less fashionable sections of the 
city; but good things were said there that I recall 
with pleasure even yet; while some of the company, 
on whom I have not since set eyes, I cherish a grateful 
and pleasant remembrance. As their circumstances 
gradually though surely improved, by dint of diligent 
industry and judicious economy, they occupied more 


dlgibk quarters ; and the modest dwelling they have 
for some years owned and improved, in the very heart 
of this emporium, has long been known to the literary 
guild as combining one of the best private libraries, 
with sunniest drawing-room (even by gas-light) to 
be found between Kingsbridge and the Battery." 


The wfaole family that is, Deacon and his wife, and 
ttesr 108 and daughter, Jerry and Sally were seated on 
Hie porch in tfee moonlight, cutting apples to dry for, 
as the father and sou returned from their harvest-field in 
H& etching, tkrf brought regularly each a basket of 
apples, which were duly prepared for drying the next 
&szf m that all fee time was tamed to good account. 
l^r worked m silence, and as at a task which in fact it 
was. Toltmtarily assumed on the 'part of the old people, 
and quietly submitted to cm that of the young. A low 
tint bdfifimit grow! of the great brindled watch-dog 
that hj at the front gate night and day caused in the 
l&lc group a general sensation, which became especially 
liyely when it was followed by the click of the latch at 
tlie gate, and the sound of a briskly approaching foot- 

**Who cm earth can be coming, this time of night?** 
exclaimed the Beacon, in some alarm, for it was eight 

"I am afraid somebody is sick or dead," said Mrs. 
WteSe&J; bat she was kept in suspense only a moment, 
when tie genial salutation of "Good evening, neigh- 
* all fears. 

fie visitor was Deacon White, a short, good-natured, 
, who wore a fashionable hat and coat every 
i't cut apples of nights, Jerry immediately 
<*ak f m behalf of the guest, and seating him- 
self on a fnem^ spedded pttinpkin, with an arch look at 
Sft% co^^d Nb w^i: in silence; for the children, as 
were always caDe& nenrtr presumed to talk in the 


presence of superiors that is, older people. The two 
neighbors talked about everything: crops in general, the 
wheat harvest in particular, and the probable prices of 
oats and potatoes ; then of the various changes which had 
taken place in the neighborhood within their remem- 
brance; who had come from the East, and who had gone 
West, and who had been married, and who had died, until 
Sally began to think she never should find out what Dea- 
con White came for. At last, however, he revealed his 
errand, making it a sort of parenthesis in the body of his 
conversation, as though it were a mere trifle, and he was 
used to such things every day; whereas it had doubtless 
troubled his mind from the beginning, and he expected 
its announcement to create some sensation, which, to his 
evident disappointment and mortification, it "failed to do; 
or, if it did, Deacon WhitfieH suffered not the slightest 
emotion to betray itself a degree of impassibility being 
one of the strong points of his character on which he 
particularly prided himself. 

" Do you think our folks will go, Jerry ? " said Sally, 
as she helped her brother carry away the basket of apple- 

" Yes, I guess not/ said Jerry ; and then added, in a 
bitterer tone, " Pm glad he did not ask me I wouldn't 
have gone if he had." 

The reader roust know that the old-fashioned minister 
of the Qoyeraook clittrcti, having become dissatisfied with 
the new-fangled follies tfeat fiad crept into the midst of 
his people, had lately shaken t&e dust from ins feet and 
departed, after preaching a farewell senaon from the 
text, " Oh, ye generation of vipers I " upon which, a young 
man, reputed handsome, and of chanmEgiy social and in- 
sinuating manners, had been invited to take the charge, 
and his approaching installation was about to be preceded 
by a dinner at Deacon White's, he himself extending to 
his brother deacons the invitations in person. He had 
secretly felt little edified for several years past with the 
nasal exhortations of the old pastor, which invariably 
closed with ** A few more risings and settings of the sun," 
etc., and being pleased with the change himself, be nat- 


urally wished all the congregation to be so; and the din- 
ner and merry-making at his house he meant as a sort of 
feae-cHeriiig to those who were likely to be disaffected ; 
neverttiele&s, some few, among whom was Deacon Whit- 
fieid* were likely to prove stiff-necked. 

A dinner-party at ive o'clock I That was the beatenest 
tiling lie had heard oi He took supper at four. Clover- 


Hie solemn wood has spread 

Shadows around my head: 
** Curtains they are," I said, 
* Hung dim and still about the house of prayer: '* 

Softly among the limbs, 

Turning the leaves of hymns, 

I tiear ttte winds, and ask if God were there. 

No TOice replied, but while I listening stood, 

Sweet peace made holy hushes through the wood. 

Witti ruddy, open hand, 

I saw the wild rose stand 

Beside the green gate of the summer hills, 

And, piiliing at her dress, 

I cried, * Sweet hermitess, 

Hast thoti beheld Him who the dew distils? 

No voice replied, but while I listening bent 

Her gracious beauty made my heart content 

Hie moon in splendor shone: 

" Stic walketh Heaven alone, 
And seetti all things/* to myself I mused; 

**Hast tlicm beheld Him, then, 
Wto Itkfes himself from men 
In tint great power through nature interfused?* 1 
H speecli made answer, and BO sign appeared, 
But m the sikuce I was soothed and cheered. 

oe time, strange awe 

my soul, I saw 
A M&fty sfikador itwud about the night; 


Such cunning work the hand 
Of spinner never planned; 
The finest wool may not be washed so white. 
' Hast thou come out of Heaven ? " 
I asked ; and lo ! 
The snow was all the answer of the snow. 

Then my heart said, Give o'er; 

Question no more, no more! 

The wind, the snow-storm, the wild hermit flower, 

The illuminated air, 

The pleasure after prayer, 

Proclaim the unoriginated Power! 

The mystery that hides him here and there, 

Bears the sure witness he is everywhere. 



Though never shown by word or deed, 
Within us lies some germ of power, 

As lies unguessed, within the seed, 
The latent flower. 

And ttrKler every common sense 
That doth its daily use fulfil, 

There lies another, more intense. 
And beauteous still 

This dusty house, wherein is shrined 
The soul, is but the counterfeit 

Of that which shall be, more reined 
And exquisite. 

The light which to our sight belongs, 
Enfolds a light more broad and clear; 

Music but intimates the songs 
We do not hear* 


The fond embrace, the tender kiss 
Which love to its expression brings, 

Arc but tiie husk the chrysalis 
Wears on its wings. 

The vigor falling to decay, 
Hopes, impulses that fade and die, 

Are bat the layers peeled away 
From life more high. 

What death shall come and disallow 
Tliese rough and ugly masks we wear, 

I think, that we shall be as now 
Only more fair. 

And He who makes his love to be 
Always around me, sure and calm, 

Sees what is possible to me, 
Not what I am* 



Among the beautiful pictures 

That hang on Memory's wall 
Is one of a dim old forest, 

That seemeth best of all: 
Not for its gnarled oaks olden, 

Dark with the mistletoe; 
Not for the yiolets golden 

That sprinkle the vak below; 

Hot for tlie milk-white lilies 
Tliat lean from the fragrant ledge, 
t^ aS <fay with the sunbeams, 
steafiiig their golden edge; 
ioc &e TOICS on the upland, 
te fee bright red berries rest, 
ttie pinfe^ nor the pale sweet cowslip 
It seonetti to me tfie best 


I once had a little brother, 

With eyes that were dark and deep; 
In the lap of that old dim forest 

He lieth in peace asieep: 
Light as the down of the thistle, 

Free as the winds that blow, 
We roved there the beautiful summers 

The summers of long ago; 

But his feet on the hills grew weary. 

And, one of the autumn eves, 
I made for my little brother 

A bed of the yellow leaves. 
Sweetly his pale arms folded 

My neck in a weak embrace, 
As the light of Immortal beauty 

Silently covered his face; 

And when the arrows of sunset 

Lodged in the tree tops bright, 
He fell, in his saint-like beauty, 

Aisleep by the gates of light. 
Therefore, of all the pictures 

That hang on Memory's wall, 
The one of the dim old forest 

Seemeth the best of alL 



The hills are bright with maples yt 

But down the level land 
The beech -leaves rustle in the wind 

As dry and brown as sand. 

The clouds in bars of rusty red 

Along the hill-tops glow, 
And in the still, sharp air, the frost 

Is like a dream of snow. 



The berries of the briar-rose ^ 

Have lost their rounded pride: 
The bitter-sweet chrysanthemums 

Are drooping heavy-eyed. 

The cricket grows more friendly now, 

The dormouse sly and wise, 
Hiding away in the disgrace 

Of nature, from men's eyes. 

The pigeons, in black wavering lines, 

Are swinging toward the sun, 
And all the wide and withered fields 

Proclaim the summer done. 

His store of nuts and acorns now 

Hie squirrel hastes to gain, 
And sets his house in order for 

The winter's weary reign. 

Tis time to light the evening fire, 

To read good books, to sing 
The low and lovely songs that breathe 

Of the eternal Spring. 



Earth with its dark and dreadful ills, 

Recedes and fades away; 
Lift up your heads, ye heavenly hills 6 

Ye gates of death give way ! 

Hy soul is full of whispered song; 

My blindness is my sight; 
Tfey shadows that I feared so long 

Are all alive with light 

Tile iwfeile my pulses faintly beat, 

11 j faith <Qth so abound, 
I feel grow fena beneath my feet 

Tbe green immortal ground. 


That faith to me a courage gives, 

Low as the grave, to go; 
I know that my Redeemer lives : 

That I shall live I know. 

The palace walls I almost see, 
Where dwells niy Lord and King; 

O grave, where is thy victory! 
O death, where is thy sting ! 



I have been out to-day in field and wood, 
Listening to praises sweet and counsel good, 
Such as a little child had understood, 

That, in its tender youth, 
Discerns the simpk eloquence of truth. 

The modest blossoms, crowding round my way, 
Though they had nothing great or grand to say, 
Gave out their fragrance to the wind all day; 

Because his loving breath, 
With soft persistence, won them back from death. 

And the right royal lily, putting on 

Her robes, more rich than tliose of Solomon, 

Opened her gorgeous missa! in the sun, 

And thanked Him, soft and low. 
Whose gracious, liberal hand had clothed her so. 

When wearied, on the meadow-grass I sank; 

So narrow was the rill from which I drank, 

An infant might have stepped from bank to bank, 

And the tall rushes near 
Lapping together, hid its waters clear. 

Yet to the ocean joyously it went; 
And rippling in the fulness of content, 
Watered the pretty flowers that o'er it leant; 

For all the banks were spread 
With delicate flowers that on its bounty fed 



The stately maize, a fair and goodly sight 1 , 

With serried spear-points bristling sharp and bright 

Shook out his yellow tresses for delight, 

To all their tawny length, 
like Samson, glorying in his lusty strength. 

And every littfc bird upon the tree, 
Ruffling his plumage bright, for ecstasy, 
Sang in the wild insanity of glee ; 

And seemed, in the same lays, 
Calling his mate and uttering songs of praise. 

The golden grasshopper did chirp and sing; 
The plain bee, busy with her housekeeping, 
Kept humming cheerfully upon the wing, 

As if she understood 
Tliat, with contentment, labor was a good. 

I saw each creature, in his own best place, 
To t!*e Creator lift a smiling face, 
Praising continually his wondrous grace; 

As if the best of all 
Life's countless bkssings was to live at all 1 

So, with a book of sermons, plain and true, 

Hid in my heart, where I might turn them through, 

I went home softly through the falling dew, 

Still listening, rapt and calm, 
To nature giving out her evening psalm. 

Whik, far along the west, mine eyes discerned 
Where, lit by God, the fires of sunset burned, 
The tree-tops, ttnconsumed, to Ham* were turned 

Aiid I, m Hiat great hush, 
Talked with his angels in each burning bush ! 



Our oM brown homestead reared its walls 

Wmm tibe wayside dust aloof, 
Where tlie %$$i&fymgfa$ could almost cast 

Their faat upon its roof; 


Ami the cherry-tree so near it grew 

That when awake Tve lain 
In the lonesome nights, Fve heard the limbs 

As they creaked against the pane; 
And those orchard trees, oh, those orchard trees ; 

I have seen my little brothers rocked 
In their tops by the summer breeze. 

The sweet-brier, tinder the window-sill, 

Which the early birds made glad, 
And the damask rose, by the garden fence 

Were all the flowers we had. 
I've looked at many a flower since then, 

Exotics rich and rare, 
That to other eyes were lovelier 

But not to me so fair; 
For those roses bright, oh, those roses bright! 

I have twined them in my sister's locks 
That are hid in the dust from sight 

We had a well, a deep old well, 

Where the spring was never dry, 
And the cool drops down from the mossy stones 

Were falling constantly, 
And there aever was water half so sweet 

As the draught that filled my cup. 
Drawn tip to the curb by the rtide old sweep 

That my father's hand set up, 
And that deep old well, oh* that deep old well! 

I remember now the plashing sound 
Of the bucket as it felL 

Our homestead had an ampk hearth, 

Where at night we loved to meet ; 
There my mother's voice was always kind, 

And her smile was always sweet; 
And there I've sat on my father's knee, 

And watched his thoughtful brow, 
With my childish haml in his raven hair, 

That hair is silver now ! 


But ttiat broad hearth's light, oh, that broad hearth's 


And tuy father's look, and my mother's smile, 
They are in my heart to-night 1 



One sweetly solemn thought 

Comes to me o'er and o'er; 
I am nearer home to-day 

Than I ever have been before; 

Nearer my Father's house, 
Where the many mansions be; 

Nearer the great white throne, 
Nearer the crystal sea ; 

Nearer the bound of life, 
Where we lay our burdens down; 

Nearer leaving the Cross, 
Nearer gaining the Crown ! 

But lying darkly between, 
Winding down through the night, 

Is the silent, unknown stream, 
That leads at last to the light 

Oh, if my mortal feet 
Have almost gained the brink; 

If it be I am nearer home, 
Even to-day than I think; 

Father, perfect my trust; 

Let my spirit feel in death, 
That ber feet are irmly set 

On the lock of a living faith. 



HENRY FRANCIS, an English translator; 
born at Gibraltar, December 6, 1772; died at 
London, August 14, 1844. He was the son of 
a captain in the British army, and was educated at 
Oxford, where he was early distinguished for his 
knowledge of the classics and of Italian, French, and 
English literature. He became vicar of Abbot's Brom- 
ley, Staffordshire, in 1796; removed to the living of 
Kingsbury, Warwickshire, in 1800; became reader at 
Berkeley Chapel, London, in 1807, and was appointed 
assistant keeper of printed books at the British Mu- 
seum in 1826, resigning in 1837. 

In 1805 he published a translation of Dante's In- 
ferno in English blank verse, and in 1814 a translation 
of the entire Dwina Commedia* It is cm this work 
that his reputation as a literary man endures. It at- 
tracted little attention for some years until Coleridge, 
in a course of lectures at the Royal Institution, spoke 
of it in terms of high praise. The attention of the 
world having thus been called to the work, it gradually 
grew in public favor and SOOT took its place among 
standard translations; and, though many rivals have 
appeared, it still holds its honorable place. It has the 
great merits of accuracy, idiomatic vigor, and reada- 
bleness. Cary had the satisfaction of seeing his work 
pass through four editions. He afterward translated 
The Birds of Aristophanes and the Odes of Pindar, 
and wrote a number of short memoirs in continuation 
of Johnson's Lives of the Poets. 



** Tlmmgfi me you pass into the city o woe : 
Through me you pass into eternal pain ; 
Through me among the people lost for aye. 
Justice the founder of my fabric mov'd ; 
To rear me was the task of power divine, 
Sttpremest Wisdom and primeval 'Love. 
Before me things create were none, save things 
Eternal, and eternal I endure. 
AH hope abandon ye who enter here." 

Stich characters in color dim I marked 
Orer a portal's lofty arch inscribed: 
Whereat I thus : " Master, these words import 
Hand meaxxfag" He as one prepared replied: 

* Here them must all distrust behind thee leave ; 
Hei^e fee Tile fear extinguish M We are come 
Wiiette I tiafe told thee we shall see the souls 
To misery doam'd, who intellectual good 
Have lost** And when his hand he had stretch'd forth 
To miBe, with pleasant looks, whence I was cheered, 
Into diat secret place he led me on. 

Here sighs with lamentations and loud moans 
Resounded through the air pierced by no star, 
That yen I wept at entering. Various tongues, 
Honribk languages, outcries of woe, 
Accents of anger, voices deep and hoarse, 
With hands together smote that swelFd the sounds, 
Made up a tumult that forever whirls 

Ki through that air with solid darkness stain'd, 
to tlie sand that in t&e whirlwind flies, 
*% with error yet encompassed, cried: 

*O master? what is this I hear? what race 
Aft ^ese wlio seem so overcome witibi woe? " 
tie ihui to me: **Th!s miserable fate 
Sjfar &e wretched semis of those who liv'd 
Wifet r ijraise or blame, with that ill band 
Of angels mixed, who nor rebellious proved 
yssfc wese tern to God, but for themselves 


Were only. From his bounds Heaven drove them forth. 
Not to impair his lustre, nor the depth 
Of Hell receives them, lest th' accursed tribe 
Should glory thence with exultation vain," 

I then : " Master ! what doth aggrieve them thus, 
That they lament so loud ? " He straight replied : 

* That will I tell thee briefly. These of death 
No hope may entertain : and their blind life 
So meanly passes that all other lots 
They envy. Fame of them the world hath none, 
Nor suffers; Mercy and Justice scorn them both. 
Speak not of them, but look and pass them by." 
And I, who straightway look'd, beheld a flag, 
Which whirling ran around so rapidly, 
That it no pause obtained ; and following came 
Such a long train of spirits I should ne'er 
Have thought that death so many had despoil'd 

Then looking farther onward I beheld 
A throng upon the shore of a great stream; 
Whereat I thus : ** Sir, grant me now to know 
Whom here we view, and whence impell'd they seem 
So eager to pass o'er as I discern 
Through the blear light?" He thus to me in fear; 

" This shalt thou know, soon as our steps arrive 
Beside the woeful tide of Acheron/* 

Then with eyes downward cast and filfd with shame* 
Fearing my wonls offensive to Ms ear, 
Till we had reacted tiie river, I from speech 
Abstained. And lo ! toward us in a bark 
Comes on an old man hoary white with eM, 
Crying, " Woe to you, wicked spirits ! hope not 
Ever to see the sky again, I coiue 
To take you to the other shore across, 
Into eternal darkness, there to dwell 
In fierce heat and in ice. And thou who there 
Standest, live spirit! get thee hence, and leave 
These who are dead" But soon as he beheld 
I left them not, * By other way," said he, 

" By other haven shalt thou come to shore, 
Not by this passage; thee a nimbler boat 
VOL. V.I4 


Must carry/* Then to him thus spake my guide : 
** Charon! thyself torment not: so 'tis willed, 
Wbcre will and power are one: ask thou no more. 1 * 

Straightway in silence fell the shaggy cheeks 
Of him the boatman o'er the livid lake, 
Aroti&d whose eyes glared wheeling flames. Meanwhile 
Ttiosc spirits, faint and naked, color changed, 
And gnash'd their teeth, soon as the cruel words 
They heard God and their parents they blasphemed 
The human kind, the place, the time, the seed 
That did engender them and give them birth. 

Tlien all together sorely wailing drew 
To tibc curs'd strand, that every man must pass 
Wtio fears not God. Charon, demoniac form, 
With eyes of burning coal, collects them all, 
Beck'uing, and each, that lingers, with his oar 
Strikes. As fall off the light autumnal leaves, 
One stiQ another following, till the bough 
Strews aH its honors on the earth beneath; 
E'en in like manner Adam's evil brood 
Cast tJhemselves one by one down from the shore, 
Each at a beck, as falcon at his call 

Thus go they over through the umbered wave, 
And ever they 011 the opposing bank 
Be landed, on this side another throng 
Still gathers. " Son/' thus spake the courteous guide, 
Those who die subject to the wrath of God, 
All here together come from every clime, 
And to o'erpass the river are not loth : 
For so heaven's justice goads them on, that fear 
Is tamed into desire. Hence ne'er hath passed 
GCKX! spirit If of thee Charon complain, 
Nm^mayst thou know the import of his words." 
His said, the gloomy region trembling shook 
S teriMy, that yet with clammy dews 
Fw diifls tuy brow. The sad earth gave a blast, 
Tfemt figbtatug, shot forth a vermilion flame, 
Wfekli aH my senses conquer'd quite, and I 
Own drofaf>*4 as one with sudden slumber seiVd. 

The Inferno, Canto IIL 


an Italian adventurer ; born at Venice in 1725 ; 
died at Dux, Bohemia, in 1803. His career 
of adventure and intrigue in almost all the countries 
of Europe has gained for him the name of " The Gil 
Bias of the Eighteenth Century/' He was educated 
at Padua and Venice, and intended to become an ec- 
clesiastic ; but being in youth expelled from a seminary 
of priests for immorality, he started out upon his 
travels, and visited Naples, Rome, and Constantinople, 
leading a life of adventure. In 1745 he returned to 
his native city and supported himself as a violinist 
until the cure of a senator who had been attacked by 
apoplexy brought him into fortunate notice. His ir- 
regularities, however, drove him away again, and he 
wandered off to Milan, Mantua, Verona, Ferrara, Bo- 
logna, Parma, and then to Paris, where he arrived in 
1750. Here he was patronized by the nobility, and 
became acqtiainted with several authors of distinction, 
including Voltaire and Rousseau. But everywhere he 
got into trouble and disgrace. He was allowed to visit 
the Court of Frederick the Great ; Catherine of Russia 
was disposed to befriend him; he hobnobbed with 
Louis XV., and was well known at Versailles; but 
everywhere he cheated at cards and got drunk; and 
in 1755 he arrived home again at Venice. Here he 
was arrested as a spy and imprisoned under the leads 
of the Doge's Palace. His getting out of this prison 
is one of the celebrated escapes in the annals of ad- 
venture. It made him famous, and he was lionized, 
and allowed to set the fashions for society; until, 
making every place too hot for its inhabitants, first 


one city, then another Varsovia, Paris, Madrid 
had to drive him out Among his exploits, we find 
him in 1761 professing magic and undertaking for a 
stipulated stun of money to regenerate Madame 
DIJrfe into a young man. In 1790 he became librar- 
ian to Count Waldstein, in whose castle he died thir- 
teen years afterward, Among the literary works of 
CasaBOTa are a translation of the Iliad; a number of 
histories; a work of fiction entitled Eight Years among 
the Inhabitants of the Interior of the Globe; Recit de 
S& C&ptmti ( 1788) ; and his celebrated M&moires, 
wfeidh have been often republished 


Tbc celk for the state prisoners are on the highest floor, 
in Ac roof of the ducal palace, which roof is neither 
cohered with slates nor tiles, but with plates of lead 
(pioeiiii) three fed: square, and about a line in thick- 
ness. The only access to tbem is through the gate of 
the palace and through those galleries along which I 
lud beoQ brought, and in the way up to them the council- 
Iiali of tfae state inquisitors is passed. The secretary 
alone keeps the key, and the jailer returns it to him 
rra7 morning after he has performed his service for 
tie prisoners. This arrangement was made because, at 
si kte liotir of the day, the Council of Ten assembled 
IB an adjoining chamber, called La Bussola, and the 
jailers would have had to pass through an ante-room 
where people in attendance on that Council were in 

tttm prisoners occupy the two opposite sides of the 
wMw^ three, among which were mine, toward the 
ratt ml four toward the east The gutter on our 
sile mm along tlie itmer court; on die other side it 
the canal Rio di Pdaszo. The cells on that 
are wf Hgbt, and a man can stand upright in 
!; istit ft ms not so with the others, which were 


called trove, from the beams which crossed the windows 
in the roof. The floor of my cell was the ceiling of the 
hall of the inquisitors, who, according to the rules, 
assembled only at night after the meeting of Ten. 
Translation from the French in 1826. 


There are also nineteen frightful subterraneous dun- 
geons in the ducal palace, destined for prisoners con- 
demned to death. All judges and rulers on earth have 
esteemed it a mercy if they left the wretch his life, 
however painful that life might be to him. It can oily 
be a mercy when the prisoner considers it himself as 
such; and he ought to be consulted on the subject, or 
else the intended mercy becomes injustice. These nine- 
teen subterraneous dungeons are really graves; but they 
are called " wells " (pozzi), because they are always two 
feet deep in water, the sea penetrating through the 
gratings that supply the wretched light that is allowed to 
them. The prisoner who will not stand all day long in 
salt water must sit on a trestle, that serves him at night 
for a bedstead; on this is pkced his mattress, and each 
morning his bread, water, aijd soup, which he must 
swallow immediately, if he do not wish to contend for 
it with krge sea rats that infest these wretched abodes. 

I toew of a Frenchman, who having served as a spy 
for the Republic, in a war with the Turks, bad sold him- 
self as an agent also to them. He was condemned to 
death, but his sentence was changed to perpetual im- 
prisonment in the " well * ; he was foor and forty years 
of age when he was first immured, yet he lived seven and 
thirty years in them; he could only have known hunger 
and misery, yet thought **dnm vita superest bene est/* 
and to this misery did I now expect to be condemned 
Prom the Mmows; old translation* 


ASAS, BARTOLOME DE LAS, a Spanish prelate 
and missionary; born at Seville in 1474; died 
at Madrid, July, 1566. He was educated at 
Salamanca, and is supposed by some historians to have 
accompanied Columbus to the West Indies in 1498. 
Others conclude that he first crossed the Atlantic in 
1502, in company with Ovando. In 1510 he took 
orders as a priest at San Domingo; whence he went to 
Cuba with Velasquez. Here he distinguished himself 
for his humane treatment of the natives, whose cause 
he championed against the cruelties practised upon 
them by his countrymen. In his zeal for the Indians 
he returned to Spain several times, and, obtaining 
<feote$ in their favor, did what he could to have them 
carried out among the colonists. During one of these 
visits home, the title of " Protector of the Indians " 
was conferred upon him ; but such was the opposition 
he met with in his crusade against Indian slavery that, 
in despair and, as he afterward confessed, in an 
evil moment he recommended negro slavery as a 
substitute. So that this apostle of freedom has been 
charged with having been the father of American 
slavery. Negroes, however, had been already brought 
to the New World as slaves. For a time he became 
disltearteied, and, assuming the tonsure in 1522, he 
ttafiwed to the Dominican convent in San Domingo; 
fenfc in 1530 he again appeared as a crusader in behalf 
f Ae la&as, visiting Mexico, Guatemala, Nicaragua, 
rod even Germany. Three times he crossed the ocean 
to Gmna&y, wttere be published his writings against 
the oppressMi of the Indians. Some of the laws 
be procured to be passed were received with 


such alarm in America as to cause rebellion ; and not- 
withstanding his preaching had accomplished incalcu- 
lable good, so far short did the result fall of the end 
he aimed at that, in 1547, he resigned and retired to 
Valladolid. Many of the works of Las Casas-are still 
in manuscript, unpublished, notwithstanding their vast 
historical importance. His Histona de las Indian was 
printed In 1875. The Destruction of the Indias by the 
Spaniards, which was published in London in 1583, 
and again in 1625, is a translation of his Breuissima 
Relation de la Destruydon de las Indias, which he 
had issued at Seville in 1552. 


There was a certain man named Juan Bono, and lie 
was employed by the members of the audiencia of St 
Domingo to go and obtain Indians. He and his men, 
to the number of fifty or sixty, landed OB the island of 
Trinidad. Now the Indians of Trinidad were a mild, 
loving, credulous race, the enemies of tjbe Caribs, wbo 
ate human flesh. On Juan Bono's landing, the Indians, 
armed with bows and arrows, went to meet tlie Spaniards, 
and to ask than who they were, and what tiiey wanted 
Jiaan Bono replied that his crew were good and peaceful 
people, who had come to Ike with tlie Indians; upon 
which, as the commeacemeat of good fellowship, the 
natives offered to build hottses for tlie Spaniards. The 
Spanish captain expressed a wish to have one large 
house built The accommodating Indians set about build- 
ing it. It was to be in the form of a bell, and to be 
large enough for a hundred persons to live in. On any 
great occasion it would hold many more. Every day, 
while this house was being built, the Spaniards were fed 
with fish, bread, and fruit by their good-natured hosts. 
Juan Bono was very anxious to see the roof on, and the 
Indians continued to work at the building with alacrity. 
At last it was completed, being two stories high, and so 


constructed that those within could not see those without 
Upon a certain day Juan Bono collected the Indians to- 
gether, men, women, and children, in the building, to see, 
as he told them, " what was to be done." Whether they 
thought they were coming to some festival, or that they 
were to do something more for the great house does not 
appear. However, there they all were, four hundred of 
them, looking with much delight at their own handiwork. 
Meanwhile, Juan Bono brought his men round the build- 
ing, with drawn swords in their hands; then, having 
thoroughly entrapped his Indian friends, he entered with 
% party of armed men, and bade the Indians keep still, 
or he wotiM kill them. They did not listen to him, but 
rashed against the door. A horrible massacre uisued. 
Some of the Indians forced their way out, but many 
of them, stupeed at what they saw, and losing * eart, 
were captured and bound. A hundred, however, escaped, 
and, saatcMng up their arms, assembled in one of thiir 
own feotises, and prepared to defend themselves. Juan 
Bono summoned them to surrender: they would not hear 
of It; and then he resolved to pay them completely for 
tbe hospitality and kind treatment he had received; and 
m t setting fire to the house, the whole hundred men, 
together with scroe women and children were burnt 
alive. The Spanish captain and his men retired to the 
ship with their captives. From his own mouth I heard 
tisat which I write, Juan Bono acknowledged that never 
m his life had he met with the kindness of father and 
motlier hit in the island of Trinidad. " Well, then, man 
of perdition, why did you reward them with such ungrate- 
fad wickedness and cruelty? " " On ray faith, Padre, be- 
cause tfay gave roe for instructions to take them in peace 
if 1 nfcl not by war." WILSON'S Translation. 


{ASAUBON, ISAAC, a Franco-Swiss critic and 
classical scholar; born at Geneva, February 8, 
1559; died at London, July i, 1614, Until he 
was nineteen years old his only education was such as 
his father, a Huguenot minister, who had returned 
with his family to France after the edict of 1561, could 
give him when at home and not in hiding or flying 
from the persecutions of those troubled times. But 
at nineteen he was sent to the University of Geneva, 
where he studied Greek with Francis Portus, a native 
of Crete. At Portus's death, in 1581, he requested 
that Casaubon, then only twenty-two, be made his 
successor. He remained at the University as Profes- 
sor of Greek until 1596, and during this time he be- 
gan publishing his editions of Greek authors which 
first brought him into notice as a keen and learned 
critic. In 1596 he accepted an invitation from the 
University of Montpellier, France, to become Profes- 
sor of Greek, but he remained here only three years, 
In 1600, sooo after the publication of his Athenmis, he 
was invited to Paris by Henry IV. to teach Greek, and 
four years after he was appointed sub-librarian of tlie 
royal library. After the assassination of Heaty IV., 
in 1610, Casaubon went to London hoping to find 
leisure and rest, but James L, by whom he was very 
kindly received, gave him no opportunity for this, and 
he died while engaged on a work for the Kiiig, a 
criticism of the Annals of Baronius. He was buried 
in Westminster Abbey. Among his works are Athe- 
n&us; On Eccksiasticd Liberty; Characters of Theo- 
phrastus, and an edition of Poiybius and of Aristotle's 


JAHUAHY i, 1610. That I, my wife, children, sister, 
and all dear to me, may happily begin this year, and 
may set it to a joyful termination, I humbly entreat 
Thee, immortal God, through Thine own mercy, and 
through the merits of Jesus Christ, Thine only begot- 
ten Son. Thee, I say, do I humbly supplicate, and adore 
Thy great name.- Now assuredly, if ever, and more than 
ever, do I, my wife, and all that are mine, stand in need 
of Thy protection and assistance. For now have I come 
to this, that I am compelled to engage in continual spirit- 
ual combats. Frequent discussions must be held with that 
eminent maa who is unquestionably superior in learning 
to all the rest of my opponents and is scarcely inferior in 
ability to any one of them. Above all others, he presses 
me wtio is the first man in the kingdom of France; he 
who, by the goodness of God, has now for so many years 
supported me, ami furnished me with the leisure which 
I possess. The matter, then, has come to this point that, 
if I continue to oppose his wish, I must lose his favor, 
aad be deprived of his benefactions. If this should hap- 
pen, what lies before me but that I should be, humbly 
speaking, tiie most miserable of men ? What hope have 
I, far or near? For, indeed, foreseeing long ago that 
tfiat would happen which now seems on the point of 
occurring, so that my present position would be quite 
insecure, I have made every effort to procure some other 
iBeaas of support But all the hopes which were held 
mt to me have failed ... As often as I reflect on 
my condition, immortal God, horror rises up in my mind 
fnra the fear, lest, owing to the circumstances in which 
1 am placed, I should do anything which would offend 
Thy thrice holy name, a thing which I hate, and from 
I shrink with my whole heart Diary. 



ASTELAR, EMILIO, a Spanish statesman and 
orator; born at Cadiz, September 8, 1832; died 
at Murcia, May 25, 1899. After studying in 
the schools of Alicante, Castelar completed his educa- 
tion at Madrid. In 1854 he made his first appearance 
as an orator in the Literal cause. In 1856 he was 
appointed Professor of History in the University of 
Madrid, which position he lost in 1864, in consequence 
of his connection with a Democratic journal. During 
the revolutionary movement of 1866 Castelar was ar- 
rested and sentenced to death, but made his escape 
from Spain, and occupied the next two years in travel- 
ling and writing. After the revolution of 1868 he re- 
turned to Spain, resumed his professorship, and op- 
posed the establishment of a monarchy. On the resig- 
nation of King Amadeo he was chosen Minister of 
Foreign Affairs, and a few days later President of the 
Spanish Republic, His efforts to suppress the Carlists 
were unsuccessful; and a vote of confidence la him 
having been defeated in 1874, he resigned the Presi- 
dency, and went to Switzerland The next year be 
resigned his position in the University, 

He wrote numerous novels, poems, travels, works 
on politics, slavery, war, etc. Among his publications 
are Ernesto, a novel (1855) ; L&cm, His Lift, His 
Genius, His Poems (1857) ; Popufar Legends (1857) ; 
Democratic Ideas ( 1858) ; CwUi$&on in the First Five 
Centuries of Christianity (1858-59); Account of the 
W<& in Africa (1859) ; The Redemption of the Slmte 
(1859) 5 Let*** to Bishop upon the Liberty of the 
Church (1864) ; Parliamentary Speeches (1871) ; Old 


Rome and New Italy (1873) ;' Life of Lord Byron, 
aud The History of a Heart, a romance. 


How wonderful is each of these figures ! One cannot 
COTiprehettd how the poor genius of man has performed 
so imiek I have seen artists, in mute contemplation 
before these frescoes, let fall their arms in astonishment, 
and shake their heads iu desperation, as if saying, " Never 
am we copy this!" ... 

Isaiah is reading the book of human destiny. His 
cere&nim is like the curve of a celestial sphere, an urn 
of i*lea&, as the tops of high mountains are the crystal 
sources from which descend great rivers. The angel 
calls MB*, and, without dropping his book, he slowly raises 
Ms bead toward heaven, as if suspended between two 
infinities. Jeremiah wears the sackcloth of the penitent, 
wfeidi suits Ac prophet wandering near Jerusalem. His 
ftps vibrate like a conqueror's trumpet His beard falls 
in wavy masses upon his breast His head is inclined 
lace tiie crown of a cedar struck by the lightning. His 
melancholy eyes overflow with tears. His hands are vig- 
orous, font swelled by bearing the tottering stones of the 
sanctuary. He is thinking of the complaint and the 
elegies of the children of Israel, captives by the waters 
of Ba%te, and the pitiful lamentation of the Queen of 
Naikais, solitary and desolate as a widow. 

Erfctel is transported ; his spirit possesses him. He 
speaks with his visions as if occupied with a divine de- 
fainm. Invisible monsters hover arotmd and shake their 
in Ills hearing, producing apparently a violent 
fibe tiie roaring and surging of the ocean. The 
fib Ms mantle as if it were a sail. Daniel is 
hisiseli absolutely absorbed in writing, relating to the 
?fe* fetory ol tfae chastisement of tyrants and the 
aod kf^ne^ of the good; the punishment of 
dxanged from a god into a beast; the 
crfws and pooisjbaait of Belshazzar, surprised by death 
in the mOst oi He orgy wiiere he feasted his concubines, 


giving them wine in the cups stolen from the sacred 
temple; the condemnation of the courtiers of Darius, 
devoured in the pit by hungry lions. . . . Jonah is 
terrified, as, rising from the bosom of the sea to go 
into the desert, he watches the fate of the great city of 
Nineveh. Zachariah is the most aged of the group, He 
staggers as if the ground were rent under his feet by the 
trembling of the earthquake announced in his last 

What is most admirable about those colossal figures 
and this we can never weary of admiring is, that 
not only are they decorations of a hall, the adornments 
of a cfiapel, but men men who have suffered our sor- 
rows and experienced our disappointments; whom the 
thorns of the earth have pierced; whose foreheads are 
furroWed by the wrinkles of doubt, and whose hearts 
are transfixed by the chill of disenchantment; men who 
have seen battles and beheld the slaughter of their fel- 
lows; who have looked on tragedies where generations 
are consumed, and who see falling on their brows the 
damp of death while seeking to prepare by their efforts 
a new society; whose eyes are worn and almost blind 
from looking continually at the movable and changing 
glass of time, and at humanity exhausted by the slow 
fire of ideas; men whose powerful and cmeentrated nerves 
support the weight of their great souls; and upoti Hie 
souls the still greater burden of aspirations which admit 
not of realization; of impossible dreams and of painful 
struggles without victory; wife no satisfaction o tiie 
earth, but with boundless desires for the infinite. . . . 

How sublime are the sibyls of the Sistine Chapel! 
How our eyes and our thoughts turn from one to tibe 
other without being able to fix tliemselves! These fig- 
ures appear to be the mothers of ideas, ttie embodiment 
of eternal beings. Anyone would say ttiey hold in their 
fingers the thread of universal life, and that they weave 
the web of nature. They are the Persian, the Erythraean, 
the Delphian, the Lybian, the Cumaean. If you search 
for their genealogies, you must find Dante, Plato, Isaiah, 
and ^Eschylus; they are of the same rice. . . . Sibyl 



of Persia! bowed by the weight of ages, thou remem- 
berest bow the infant world confided to thee her secrets 
and confessed her sorrows, and how before death, op- 
pressed by years and labor, thou didst desire to write 
a cyclical poem on the leaves of thy brazen book ! Thou 
of Libya ! who comest upon us, rushing as if the scorch- 
ing sand of the desert burned thy feet to bring to man 
some great idea, gathered in space, where all ideas are 
transformed like mysterious larvse. "Erythrael thou wert 
youthful as Greece, beautiful as one of the sirens of thy 
Archipelago, a songstress sweet as the earth of the poets, 
oodtiktiiig and graceful as the seas which bring forth 
divinities, the friend of light, and trimming the lamp by 
tfiy skk round whose brilliancy the human conscience 
shall fewer as a butterfly ! Maiden of Cumse ! virgin, like 
Iphigenia, immolated for kings, thou didst receive the 
kiss of Apollo upon thy lips, the shadow of the laurel on 
thy to>w, the immortality of genius in thy bosom; thou 
wert formed to intone a song of harmony which should 
vibrate through countless ages! Thou, Sibyl of Delphi, 
leavest thy cavern, and there, where the mountains are 
chiselled as if by the hand of a sculptor, where the 
Tyrrtierie Sea is most lovely, near the Gulf of Baiae, look- 
ing like a Grecian Goddess, and intoxicated as a Bac- 
chante reclining oa her couch of vine leaves, breathest the 
soft melody of hope I Are ye of flesh ? Are ye women ? 
HETC ye felt love, sorrow, and disappointment? Or are 
ye but the ardietypes of things, the symbols of art, the 
sfewks of the muses, invoked by all the poets, and that 
Bone feave bdbeM but in unrealized and impossible vis- 
ions Ae Tarkras forms of the eternal Eve named 
alternately Sappho, Beatrice, Laura, Vittoria Colonna, 
HBoise ami who stand by the cradle and the tomb of 
aH ages, smiling to us hopefully, awakening in us new 
s, or flying to our arms as an illusion soon 
in Hzz infinite. Old Rome and New Italy. 


Tfee Ptfritatis are the patriarchs of liberty; they opened 
a iiew world 00 the earth- they opened a new path for 


the human conscience; they created a new society. Yet, 
when England tried to subdue them and they conquered, 
the republic triumphed and slavery remained. Washing- 
ton could only emancipate his Slaves. Franklin said that 
the Virginians could not invoke the name of God, retain- 
ing Slavery. Jay said that all the prayers America sent 
up to Heaven for the preservation of liberty while Slavery 
continued were mere blasphemies. Mason mourned over 
the payment his descendants must make for this great 
crime of their fathers. Jefferson traced the line where 
the black wave of Slavery should be stayed. 

Nevertheless, Slavery increased continually. I beg that 
you will pause a moment to consider the man who 
cleansed this terrible stain which obscured the stars of 
the American banner, I beg that you will pause a mo- 
ment, for his immortal name has been invoked for the 
perpetuation of Slavery. Ah ! the past century has not, 
the century to come will not have, a figure so grand, 
because as evil disappears so disappears heroism also. 

I have often contemplated and described his life. Bom 
in a cabin of Kentucky, of parents who could hardly 
read; bora a new Moses in the solitude of the desert, 
where are forged all great and obstinate thoughts, monot- 
onous, like the desert, and, like the desert, sublime ; grow- 
ing up among those primeval forests, which, with their 
fragrance, send a clotid of incense, and, with their mur- 
murs, a cloud of prayers to Heaven ; a boatman at tender 
years in the impetuous current of the Ohio, and at seres- 
teen in the vast and tranquil waters of the Mississippi; 
later, a woodman, with axe and arm felling the Immemo- 
rial trees, to open a way to unexplored regions for his 
tribe of wandering workers; reading no oilier book than 
the Bible, the book of great sorrows and great liopes, 
dictated often by prophets to the sotmd of fetters they 
dragged through Nineveh and Babylon ; a child of Nature, 
in a word, by one of those miracles only comprehensible 
among free peoples, he fought for the country, and was 
raised by his fellow-citizens to the Congress at Washing- 
ton, and by the nation to the presidency of the Republic; 
and when the evil grew more virulent, when those States 


were dissolved, when the slaveholders uttered their wat 
cry aod the slaves their groans of despair the woodcut- 
ter, the boatman, the son of the Great West, the descend- 
ant of Quakers, humblest of the humble before his con- 
science, greatest of the great before history, ascends the 
Capitol', the greatest moral height of our time, and strong 
and serene with his conscience and his thought; before 
him a veteran army, hostile Europe behind him, Eng- 
land favoring the South, France encouraging reaction 
in Mexico, in his hands the riven country; he arms two 
millions of men, gathers a half million of horses, sends 
fais artillery 1,200 miles in a week, from the banks of 
the Potomac to the shores of Tennessee; fights more 
than six hundred battles; renews before Richmond the 
deeds of Alexander, of Oesar; and, after having emanci- 
pated 3,000,000 slaves, that nothing might be wanting, 
fee dies, in the very moment of victory like Christ, like 
Socrates, like all redeemers, at the foot of his work. His 
work I Subiw: achievement ! over which humanity shall 
eternally shed its tears, and God his benedictions.- The 
Redemption of the 

I ASTIGLIONE, BALDASSARE, an Italian noble- 
man ; born at Casatico, Mantua, in 1478 ; died 
at Toledo, February 8, 1529. He was edu- 
cated at Milan, and became so well instructed as a 
critic of art that Raphael and Michelangelo are said 
new to have thought their works perfect until they 
had bis approbation. His shining talents, his knowl- 
*4|&, md Ms pleasing manners won him the favor of 
ilbt IMte of Urfoieo, a patron of literature, at whose 
Grot he was honorably entertained, and who em- 
torn as a etwoy to the British Court. Henry 
VHL to wh$ lie was sent, made him a knight. He 


was afterward sent as envoy to Louis XII. of France. 
Tasso devoted a sonnet to the death of Castiglione; 
and Giulio Romano raised in Padua a monument to his 
memory. His literary works include two volumes of 
Letters, which were issued at Padua in 1769; Latin 
and Italian Poems, which are models of excellence; 
and the celebrated book that upon which his fame 
chiefly rests Del Cortegmw (The Courtier), a man- 
ual for the nobility and gentry, remarkable for ele- 
gance of style, and valuable historically and as the 
autobiography of a noble mind. The first edition of 
this work was published at Venice in 1528, and has 
been since translated into several of the languages of 
Europe. The Italians call it "II Libro d'Oro" 
The Book of Gold and it has been characterized as 
always new, always interesting, always instructive. It 
is written in the form of a dialogue, and specifies all 
the qualities which an accomplished, intelligent, honest 
courtier ought to possess, and the manner in which 
he ought to use them for the good of his prince. 
It was Tasso in praising Castigliooe's writings de- 
clared that their beauty deserved that in all ages they 
should be read and praised, and that, as toog 1 as courts 
should endure, as long as princes, ladies, and gentle- 
men should meet together, and as long as valor aad 
courtesy should abide in the hearts of the human race, 
so kmg should the name of Castiglioee be prized. 


Federigo> the Ehike of UrMno, erected cm the nagged 

site of tbe old capital a palace which has been said fey 

many to be Hie most beautiful palace in Italy. And so 

fittingly did he funuslt this palace, and so 

VOL. V. 15 


that one might say it was not a mere palace, but a pala- 
tial city. Not only did it have the silver vases and the 
hangings of richest golden and silken cloths, and such- 
like things as the great are wont to furnish their splendid 
residences withal; but it was beyond measure beautified 
and enriched with ancient marble statues and antique 
bronzes, with the choicest paintings, and with all sorts 
of instruments of music; nor might there be aught ad- 
mitted to the furnishing of the duke's palace that was 
not of exceeding rarity and excellence. Also at great ex- 
pease did he bring together therein very many books, 
both excellent and rare, written in the Greek, the Latin, 
and the Hebrew tongues; and these he sumptuously 
adorned with gold and silver adornings, deeming this 
collection of these valuable books to be, indeed, the para- 
mount treasure of this his magnificent palace. From II 


To my lady the Duchess was held of all in so worthy 
a reverence that each thought it the greatest pleasure to 
please her in all ways, and decorum and a sweet freedom 
from restraint were so happily blended that laughter and 
play were by her presence enlivened yet tempered with 
dignity. Goodness and magnanimity governed all her 
words and actions; and any who might see her but once 
wottH know her for a lady of the highest degree. All 
felt the impress of her influence, and all were tuned into 
accord with the quality and pitch of her very presence. 
Thus each desired to imitate her as a pattern of behavior. 
Hie lofty virtue that was in the very bearing of this lady, 
an4 all Iier noblest qualities, I cannot now rehearse ; they 
ar well known, nor could pen or tongue of mine express 
&ew as is fit. If anything might seem to be wanting in 
fcw, or were somewhat hidden, as it were, from view, it 
was tuft as ttottgh fortune herself had staggered, won- 
sad* rarity of virtue, and had chosen rather to 
tfa&se qualities trough adversity and the pangs of 
.; so timt it might be seen that with a woman's 
fragile frame tad tewtv of person there may be blent 


that prudence, and that strength of character, and that 
combination of all the virtues, that is so seldom found 
even among those of the sterner and hardier sex- From 
II Cortegiano. 

|ASTLE, EGERTON, an English novelist; bom 
at London, March 12, 1858. He was educated 
at Glasgow University and Cambridge. After 
a brief military career he turned to literature and jour- 
nalism, and has written : Schools and Masters of Fence 
( 1884) ; Bibliotheca Dimicatoria ( 1891 ) ; Consequences 
(1891) ; La. Bella and Others (1892) ; English Book 
Plates (1892) ; Saviolo, a play (1893) ; The Light of 
Scarthey (1895); The Jernmgham Letters (1896); 
The Pride of Jennico (1898) ; Young April (1899) ; 
Desperate Remedies, a play; The Bath Comedy 
(1899) ; Marshfield the Observer (1899) ; The Secret 
Orchard (1900); The Star Dreamer (1901); The 
House of Rommce (1902); Incomparable Bellas 
(1903) ; and The Rose of the World (1905)- The 
Pride of Jennico and The Bath Comedy were written 
jointly by Mr. Castle and Ms wife, Agnes Castle. 


Popular proverbs those sfiort statements of teg ex- 
perience must, from their very essence, be various and 
even contradictory on almost every question. 

Concerning marriage especially that most solemn, un- 
certain, and fatal of human engagements do they wax 
numerous and conflicting, even as are the consequences of 
a bid at the eternal lottery. 

" Happy the wooing that's not a long a-doing f w is an 
acceptable maxim, and a wise, in the estimation at least 


of yratng and ardent love. It fit's admirably with other 
well-known emotional prognostications anent the risky 
undertaking: " Happy is the bride the sun shines on," and 
stich-like. Alas that its natural cross, "Marry in haste 
and repent at leisure," should ever prove equally oppo- 

People who plunge headlong into very early matri- 
mony have, as a rule, ample opportunity to test the pithi- 
ness of both proverbs. 

Rapturous always their first impressions ; but, in a little 
while, the inevitable sobering process once fairly started 
with the whole of a life stretching drearily before them 
a lengthy series of wasted capabilities grim their re- 
lectkms on the endless consequences of one imprudent 

Tbe various aspects of leisurely repentance formed in 
tibe year 1857 a main theme in the mental existence of 
Mr. George Kerr, who was then aged twenty-three. 

Aitwed at the green door of his little house in May- 
fak, be paused a moment in disheartened and bitter cogi- 
tatk. No do^ibt she was lying in wait for him up-stairs, 
prcfjamg a scene in punishment for their last quarrel. 
... No peace for him, night or day ! Was it astonish- 
ing that he was sick sick to death of all this? 

He turned tiie key in the door, and let himself in with 
a muttered curse on his unhappy home. Contrary to or- 
ders, when all had retired except himself, the lights were 
sdll blazing in the hall; on the other hand, the lamp had 
burned itself out in his smoking-room, and filled it with 
nauseating darkness. His savage pull at the bell brought 
tfee sleepy footman tumbling up-stairs before his eyes were 
well opened. 

Why are you not in bed why is there a light in the 

lira. Kerr has not yet come in," said the man in in- 

was a lengthy silence. 

am ^> to bed," said George at last, with forced 


calmness. " First take that lamp away, and light the can- 
dles. I shall wait up for your mistress.** 

There had been nothing very particular about the day 
just elapsed. It had only differed in details from that 
of almost every day since chill disillusion had first en- 
tered into George Kerr's mad paradise so few weeks 
after the irrevocable deed had been sealed -but it was 
destined to have far-reaching consequences. 

From the very morning, as the youthful husband sat 
to a cold, ill-served, solitary breakfast the mistress of 
the house as usual sleeping late in the day after the world- 
ly exertions of the night the sense of his injuries had 
been strong upon him. 

Only a year ago, at that very hour, he was standing 
beside his bride in the solemn cathedral of Seville, and in 
galling contrast to the high hopes, the proud rapture, 
which then had filled him, the dead failure of the present 
rose, specter-like, to mock him, and would not be laid 
again, He recalled how he had looked down with palpi- 
tating heart on the blushing, smiling face, lace-veiled, by 
his side; how the touch of the slim fingers, as he heM 
them within his, thrilled him through and through; with 
what a tender earnestness, what faith and love God 
knows! he had vowed to cherish her till death; re- 
called the tumult of joy with which be had kd her down 
the aisle, his wife ! . . . 

It would be curiocis to look back ou, in tnA, If it were 
not almost maddening. ^^ 

The quarrel had started, trivially enough, fcj bis refusal 
to escort her to the ball that evening. In so tenor to 
put himself out for her this day, he had wwed himself 
determined to have a quiet evening for on^e at any price, 
She pouted, protested, wept and stormed in vain, finally 
brushed away her tears, and, with sudden calm defiance, 
announced her determination to go alone. 

" If yott do," had retorted the husband, fairly roused, 

" I shall never forgive you," And thereupon he had flung 

himself out of the house, to seek in his club the peace and 

independence refused him m his home. 

He had not dreamed she would have dared to disoixsy 


him openly; Meed, such an act of emancipation would 
hare been considered so marked in those days of sterner 
social propriety that he had not for an instant content 
plated seriously the possibility of her carrying out her 
threat; and his anger was deep indeed when he discovered 

the fact 
Gone to that infernal ball! Gone, in the very teeth of 

his command I 

" Before heaven, she actually browbeats me ! " he cried, 
as, once more alone, he paced the little room from end 
to end, gradually collecting his thoughts after the first 
blank confusion of his rage. 

The silver clock on the mantlepiece struck twice in its 
chirpy way. She was enjoying herself, without doubt, 
not thinking of returning home for another hour or so, 
bathing her soul in the adulation that was as the very 
breath of life to her. Oh ! he could see her, prodigal of 
smiles and those soft long looks which he had thought 
were for him alone, yielding herself, with all her volup- 
tuous grace that had once enthralled him, to the delight 
of tlie dance. And her husband dangling fool! 
wfeere was he? 

He could hear the half-mocking inquiry some confi- 
dential swain would breathe into the dainty shell of her 
little ear, and Carmen's careless answer: " She did not 
know; at his club, she supposed." 

And the "husband at home," viciously chewing the 
stump of an extinct cigar, seething, not in thoughts of 
jealousy for passion had burned itself out long ago, 
and love had been stifled by ever-recurring disappoint- 
ment but in maddening anger at the despicable situa- 
tion lie had created for himself, swore a great oath that 
fee iranH afford food for such laughter no longer. 
Yet what to do? Ay, there was the rub ! 
He could not beat her, he could not break her and 
slie defied him. 

Hie sense of his own impotence met him on every side. 
* Ye% look at yourself! * he snarled, as he caught sight 

of Us morose face in the glass, and paused in his caged 

tra> to ghre at it "*Look! think of your driveling 


folly, ami despise yourself for one moment of weakness ! 
You will now have to put up with the consequences, 
George Kerr, 'till death do you part! 1 . . . You are 
the guardian of a beautiful, brainless fool, whom you 
cannot control, with whom you have nothing in common 
but the chain which binds you together. He almost 
laughed aloud as he recalled the mad impatience, the 
tenacity, the determination with which he carried his 
point in the face of so many difficulties unto this end ! 

And the thought of the dear old regiment he had sacri- 
ficed with so light a heart came over him with almost a 
passion of regret If was the most glorious, surely, that 
ever glittered under the sun. Even now it was starting 
for another spell of doughty work in India, while he 
here he was, white- faced, useless, with not even a show of 
happiness to set off against his waste of youth. 

The weary minutes, feverishly ticked off by the Hrtk 
clock, had measured two leaden hours before the young 
man, storm-spent and heart-sick, could settle on a feasi- 
ble plan of action. But at length, as the rays of dawning 
day were creeping through the curtain folds a glimmer of 
light broke over the chaos of his mind. She had prom- 
ised to obey and honor him, as he to cherish her, but she 
was, even now, sinning against that vow. And if sfoe 
refused to keep her part of the contract, wfiy need he 
hold himself to his? Let her obey, as a wife is boned to 
obey her husband, or fee would put her from him, and 
be surely justified before God and man in so doing. 

George, under the relief of his new-found determina- 
tion, flung himself on a deep arm-chair and gradually fell 
into a sort of drowsy, semi-conscious condition, from 
which a loud rattle of wheels and a sharp peal of the bell 
aroused him to a vivid sense of the moment's importance. 

Drawing his weary limbs together, he rose with a stern 
composure to open the door to his wife. Consequences. 


The concert-room in the palace was a very fine place, 
all florid gilding and painting, and on the night in ques- 
tion it was crammed to overflowing; all the Court was 


present, and those of the townsfolk important enough to 
have received invitations, together with the nobles of the 
land who had travelled from far and wide to see their 
Prince married, every one in his very best clothes, and 
as ugly a lot as you could see. 

In the front row of all, on three gold and velvet arm- 
chairs, sat, first, our benign Prince, then Adolphus Fred- 
erick, resplendent in all his orders, and his wig in such 
beautiful big curls that it was fine to see ; and on his left 
Seraphina Sophia, in a robe of pale green satin sewn with 
pearls, and her hair powdered high above her head, and 
two such red cheeks that the Archduke could not take 
his eyes off them, so highly did he approve of their 
healthy appearance. But for all that, they came from 
tlie rouge-pot, as any one who knew our Princess in her 
simple tiome-life could have told him at a glance. 

Punctually as the clock struck eight, the Royal party 
made its appearance, and at the selfsame moment Master 
Huleleferand stepped oti to the platform. He looked paler 
tfeam ever in his sombre purple velvet suit, and his eyes 
fmmed like live embers under his beetling brows. He 
came forward and made his bow, looked straight at the 
Princess, who cast 1 down her eyes, and then seating him- 
self at the clavier began to play. 

On the programme it was said that he would begin by 
a sonata of Gluck's, but even as he struck the first few 
notes I knew that no composer living or dead had written 
them, but that they came straight from our master's 
brolcen heart As he once played to his Princess the day 
fee beard the news of her betrothal, so he now played to 
lier again for tne last time. And we bung on his fingers, 
fereatyess, for he ravished us into a very ecstasy of 
steJcdy such as was never heard before, save once, or 
wffi fee fcfaiu in this world. 

Haw long It lasted I never knew, whether one hour or 
more* r wfeetter it was less, It seemed like a minute, 
and yet is if one f*ad been listening to it for centuries, 
tB$ Hat it mart go on eternally, so beautiful was it It 
was s4 sad as lie and sad as death, with such an un- 
titierafefe wall of wsery and yearning that I thought my 


heartstrings were cracking with the pity of it; it was 
sweet as the song of the nightingale in the moonlight, 
and the scent of the honeysuckle in the heat of the day ; 
it was stormy, it rose and fell in ever-recurring waves of 
sound as the ocean beats against the rocks in a tempest 

And there was no end to the changes in it Now a 
song of love so seductive and tender as to stir even my 
withered old heart, now a lament so piteous and keen 
that the tears ran down my cheeks before I knew my folly. 
Once the master's fingers, speeding like a hurricane over 
the keys, drew from them a sort of savage dance of in- 
expressible weirdness, broken by a battery of short strange 
chords like bursts of demoniac laughter. 

Surely never was instrument in the hands of such a 
fiend of inspiration before. In truth our master was like 
one possessed; as he played he swayed from side to side, 
his long, lank hair, half unpowdered, escaped from its 
ribbon, and hung grey around his countenance. Every 
second he grew whiter and whiter, more wan, more wild, 
more haggard, and now and then one would almost have 
thought that he was battling in desperate frenzy with 
some ghastly, invisible spirit that drove him on despite 

But all at once a happier mood seemed to come over 
him, a series of tender modulations replaced the madness 
of his improvisation, and he gradually broke into a glori- 
ous strain, full of such solemn triumph and extraordinary 
gladness that all knew it could be nothing but a wedding 
march. And the Prince and the Archduke aad all the 
audience, who had been not a little disturbed and as- 
tounded by the fqregoing, now began to nod their heads 
and smile to each other, relieved to be free from the un- 
comfortable tension which had held them j this they cotiM 
understand ; this was something like. 

"Ya, ya, so it goes!" 

But as the wedding march went on, gathering, as it 
were, more joy and more grandeur bar by bar r there 
crept, in some amazing and bewildering- way, into its 
harmonies, one solemn note of woe, ever the same and 
ever recurring like the toll of a funeral bell And I 


cannot tell yoa the weird and depressing effect of that 
note in ttte sntdst of the gladness, nor the gloom it seemed 
to cast over us all And the gay strains grew faint and 
perplexed, with an increasing plain tiveness about them, 
hurried, uncertain, groping arid the mournful note tolled 
on, louder and louder, till it drowned all else with its 
frightful persistent, melancholy warning, and I felt a 
shiver run down my spine, and only that I was sitting 
amongst those dolts of Ha&sauers, should have stretched 
out my hand for a grasp of something warm and human. 

Now, as I looked around, I saw nothing but white faces, 
eyes goggling and mouths gaping, so that it was clear to 
me I was not singular in my impressions. Only the 
Archduke went on beating time and nodding his head as 
he had done at the beginning of the march, and I do not 
think fee noticed how his wedding music had grown into 
a funeral dirge. 

Well, suddenly the Princess sffood tip from her seat, 
straight and rigid, pressed her hands to her kft side, and 
calling out with a wild cry of pain : 

** My heart, my heart ! " fell fainting into her father's 

Qti f tibere was a hurry-scurry ! Everybody standing tip 
and pressing forward, advising, condoling, discussing, one 
louder than the other. A great breach of Court etiquette, 
to be sure, but then they were all delighted with the sound 
of their own voices again after the spell our master's wild 
genius had laid on them. (And yet I heard those Has- 
smuers declare that there was nothing admirable about 
our artist at all, and his playing but a scrimmage over 
ifae notes. Na, so they are made in the north,) 

Oar sweet Princess was carried to her room, and the 
dbctprs were in instant attendance. The Archduke was 
put out extremely so; he feared he might have been 
taken in after all, and that her health was not what an 
Ardwiitdbess's should be. But the doctors were able to 
reassure him completely. It was nothing a mere pass- 
ing wtileness ; tfee emotion, the music, the natural feelings 
of a maiden on such an occasion, all this explained the 
accident roott satisfactorily. Why, a bride-elect who did 


not iaint before the wedding would be something quite 
incorrect, after all. 

And the master? The master had slipped away in all 
the bustle, and was back in his little room alone. He was 
only half conscious of what he was doing t and some think 
he was then already in a fever, and that what he had 
played was a very delirium of music. And this, they say, 
further explains the surpassingly curious events that fol- 
lowed, and which, according to them, never happened at 
all, and were merely the phantasies of his disordered 

But it is a free world, and one need agree with no one; 
that is the comfort of it; so, as for me, I keep my opinion. 
But this, whether dream or reality, was what happened 
to Master Huldebrand that night 

It was towards midnight; all the town was quiet, and 
he was sitting still at his window in the little inn room 
thinking; whether awake or asleep none can say for cer- 
tain. A tallow candle with a great long wick was burn- 
ing on a table behind him, so that I suppose he could 
have been seen from the street. The wind was wild and 
cold, and the rain was falling. 

Now he heard some one call him from beneath his 
window. It was a woman's voice, pitched in a low and 
cautious key, and yet with such urgency in its tones that 
it struck on the master's ear as loud as a brazen tram- 

" Master Huldebrand, Master Huldebrand! " 

The master arose in haste, and opening the casement, 
put forth his head into the driving rain. 

A slim figure, whose face looked ap at him white and 
anxious from the dark wrappings about her head, and 
which he vaguely saw was that of a young woman, stood 
just before the house. 

" For God's sake," she cried, in the same subdued yet 
passionate manner, "come with me; come at once; the 
Princess has sent for you.** 

Now how the master got down the stairs and out of the 
door, who knows? but all I can tell you is, that at the 
sound of his mistress' name he felt a sttdden madness* 


And the ticket minute found him fct the wet, cold street, 
hurrying over die slimy stones, slipping, stumbling, but 
ever rushing onward by the side of the veiled figure, who 
skimmed along like the wind, pulling impatiently at his 
sleeve, as if she would have him speed yet faster. 

Presently he knew that they turned through a narrow 
gate into a gravelled walk, where dripping tendrils of 
creeping plants splashed across his face as he passed; 
that from this they came to a place where his guide 
stopped him and bade him, in a fierce whisper, tread 
cautiously or they were lost, and then they went down 
steps into the ground. 

Down they went, some dozen steps or so, into a level 
flagged passage, where they groped their way onwards 
by the damp claniiny walls ; and, again, up steps of stairs 
so liarrow, so abrupt, so winding, that as the master 
*n0tmtd, he grew quite giddy and exhausted, and thought 
tiiey would never slop, 

All at once a tiny ray of light iltered through the 
gloom, ami then the mysterious messenger stopped him. 

** Go in, in God's name/* she said, and be thought she 
was weeping; **aad may no evil come of this sight's 

The wall gave way under her touch, and the master 
found himself in a vast and spacious room, full of gentle 
light, fragrance, and warmth. And there oh merciful 
Heaven ! on a couch, looking at him with sweet, eager, 
longing eyes, lay the Princess his Princess and she 
was mil in white, like an angel and her hands were 
pressed to her heart 

Slowly she stretched out her arms to him; then 
surely it must have been a dream the poor musician 
found himself upon his knees beside her, and she was 
clasping hiia by the neck, 

w Oil, master,* she said, over and over again, ** you have 
broke tny heart; oh, master, tell me the music." 

And as he was silent in his bewilderment, and faint 
frotn awe tad rapture, and did not answer, not know- 
ing what she meant, slie cried again, pitecmsly, with a 


" Tell me the music, tell me the music I ** 

There came a sort of blank over him from which he 
awoke to find himself in a strange and exquisite maze of 

His arms were round his Princess, her head was on his 
shoulder, his eyes were drowned in hers in an unutterable 
ecstasy of passion. And he was telling her though he 
knew not how, nor what words he spoke, no more than 
he had known the notes he had played the master was 
telling her his love. 

And presently he felt her sweet arms flag and Hag as 
they clasped him; and her fair head slip away from his 
shoulder ; the exquisite burden of her form grew heavier 
and heavier in his embrace ; and then something drew his 
head down, and his lips to meet hers, and all was oblivion 
save that he thought he was floating away on the music 
of heaven. 

How long it lasted he could not count, when a sigh 
from the lips beneath his aroused him, and all at once 
those lips struck him with a sudden chill; laying her 
gently down on the couch, he raised himself to look. 

What was this? What was this? How cold, and still, 
and white! Help, help! the Princess! Ah, my God! 
What was this? 

Someone shrieked wildly behind him; there came a 
veil before his eyes, a surging in his ears, and a swaying 
of the ground on which he stood. And loudly the toHiag 
note that had haunted his wedding march began to boom 
and boom in his head. Then grasping hands dragged 
him into darkness, and there came a nightmare of steps, 
down and down in frightful dizzy descent, a hideous vista 
of interminable streets, and a fiend that drove him ever 
onwards; and again the tolling note in his head, so that 
he felt his brain bursting with the noise of it, and ran 
wildly to escape. 

After this unconsciousness. 

When Master HtiMebrand returned once more to sen- 
tient being, he was lying on his narrow bed in Ms little 
inn room, to which he had retired after the concert And 


it was already late in the morning, for the sun was 
streaming in through the window in broad kvel rays, and 
the wfiok air was filled with the hum of the busy working 
town. The master lay for a moment or two wondering 
what was this weight of sorrow at his heart. Then he 
remembered it was the morning of the Princess* wedding 
day; and as it was borne in upon him, the master turned 
over on his side, away from the light, that he might sleep 
to his misery. 

But there was something irritating, something disturb- 
ing that would not let him rest A monotonous mournful 
sound coming at slow intervals with maddening, hateful 

The bell, the bell, that doleful, dreadful bell striking 
the air, vibrating, lingering, dying away, then again, and 
again, ami again. Oh, God, he was going mad ! 

This knell that rang in his music last night, that haunt- 
ed his dreams, that was inextricably mixed up with the 
wild, sweet, fearful memories now confusedly crowding 
back on him with each moment of fuller wakefulness; 
this knell that seemed to fall on a raw nerve, to send a 
quivering shoot of pain through his frame at every stroke, 
would it never be silent? 

Yes, yes, he had gone mad, there could be no doubt 
of that. 

He sat up in bed bathed in a cold sweat, and drove in 
frenzy his fingers into his ears. Behold ! the bell ceased. 
With a new terror on him, he drew them out and listened, 
and there was the tolling again. 

It was reality, then ; his anguish redoubled, and though 
he knew not why, he shook with a great fear. 

Now, as he sat and strained his ear to the hollow sound, 
tte^e caine a bustling and stirring in the next room, and 
baking lie saw his door was ajar. 

** GoA-a-mercy ! n cried a woman's voice from the room 
within, fat and jovial, " I have not yet recovered from 
tfte turn 1 got this morning. Figure to thyself, Tmde 
I go to Hie door for the milk, awl there lies the Herr just 
as if fee were dead, sof>piag and soaking with the rain, 


his face turned up to the sky as white as a cream cheese. 
You could have knocked me over with a breath/* 

" Herr je ! " came another voice in thinner accents, in 
a pause emphasised by a clatter of crockery, " and was 
he dead then?" 

" God preserve ! " cried the first with a shriek, " no, no, 
the poor gentleman was but in a faint ! I think he had a 
little bit of fever in the night, and wandered out not 
knowing what he was doing. My man and I we carried 
him in and laid him in bed, and when last I looked in he 
was sleeping like a lamb. So long as he does not fall ill 
on my hands ! . . . But as I was saying, it quite upset 
me, and now this bell with its tolling instead of the joy- 
bells for the wedding just as I was about to start for 
the procession too. No, knowest thou? I like it not It 
is to me as if something had happened." 

Master Huldebrand still sat up listening, and that so 
intently, it seemed as if all his strength and will had 
passed into the one faculty. 

There came a tramp, tramp on the wooden stairs, and 
a call in a man's rough voice: 

" Frauchen, Frauchen, hast heard the news ? The 
Princess Seraphina was found dead in her bed this morn- 

The musician fell back on his pillow, and lay staring 
straight up at the ceiling. 

"Well well, 'tis all for the best perchance; j<m see, 
our Archduke had need of a healthy wife ! " 

" So somebody was saying.** 

The master began to laugh and hug himself. The 
Princess was dead; she would never be the Archduke's 
bride oh, that was grand! 

But then came the bell again. How sad it was, how 
terrible in its unchangeable note 1 " Dead, dead dead ! " 
it seemed to say. 


He saw her cold and white and straight, her young 
face set in the eternal age of death, and bandaged with 
an awful white bandage; and she had one stiff hand on 
her broken heart. That's what she died of, of course 


tbt master knew all about it; he had broken it, and he 
ought to know. 

11 Dead, dead, dead!" shrieked the bell, and 

"Dead, dead, dead," shrieked the master; and louder 
and louder came the tolling, till it filled the whole room 
with a mighty clamor, till the air became alive with the 
ringing, and the whole world was one great sound. Mas- 
ter Huldebrand rolled on the bed, and drew the pillows 
over his ears; in vain he could not shut it out He fell 
on his knees aisd prayed ; he fought with it, and tried to 
beat it away, but all to no avail 

Then he found out something so terrible that the hair 
stood up on his head with the horror of it And this was 
that he was the bell he himself, unhappy man, and that 
he would have to toll on for ever. This was the Princess* 
wish because the music had killed her. 

AM tiowliitg he ran out into the street 

Ah, well! our poor master he was a great genius, 
but that was the end of it all. The Hof Doctor says he 
was always a little mad, and that even his music was 
against all reason ; but he never safe! that to me twice, for 
it was more than I could hear from any man. 

Ah, he is a loss to us indeed ! No one ever played as 
he did. 

They tell me he is a hopeless lunatic, and keeps on 
fancying himself a bell, which is an odd fancy; if he had 
thought himself a clavier, you know, 'twould have seemed 
more natural. His sufferings have been terrible, but now 
he is quieter and more contented. Of late he has begun 
to believe that he is ringing for a wedding, which some- 
how appears to please him. I am told, however, he can- 
not Mvt another year. L# Brffo and Othtrs. 


ican novelist; born at Luray, Ohio, December 
16, 1847; died at Chicago, Hi., December 26, 
1902. Her father, a physician, died when she was 
ten years old, and her mother a year later. From this 
time her girlhood was spent with relatives, or at a 
boarding-school. She was educated at the Graiivilk 
(Ohio) Female College, and in 1877 was married to 
James S. Catherwood. Her first contributions to lit- 
erature were for a juvenile magazine published in 
Boston, but her first literary success was in the Ro- 
mance of Dollard (1889), a story of Canadian life, 
first published as a serial in The Century Magazine. 
She also wrote some excellent children's stories, 
among than Old Cora&an Days; The Dogberry Ranch; 
Secrets at Roseladies, and Rocky Fork. Her first 
novel, Craque-o'-Daom, was published is 1881. 
Among her later works are The Story of T&n&y 
( 1890) ; The Lady of Fort St. John ( 1891 ) ; Old 
kaskia, a story of old Louisiana life (1893); 
White Islander (1893) ; The Chase of Smnt 
and Other Stones (1894) ; and Losortf (1902), 


The sacrament of marriage, so easy of attainment in 
New France at that time, had evidently been dispensed 
with in the first hut this spiritual father entered. His 
man carried in his sacred Jtiggage, and ttie temporary 
chapel was soon set up in a corner unoccupied. The chil- 
dren hovered near in delight, gazing at tall candles and 
gilt ornaments, for even in that age of poverty tfee pomps 
of the Roman Church were carried into settlers' cabins 
throughout New France. Dollier de Cassoti had lor Ms 
VOL. V. 16 


confessional closet a canopy of black cloth stretched over 
two supports. The penitent crept under this merciful 
wing, ynd the priest, seated on a stool, could examine the 
sou! as a modern photographer examines his camera ; ex- 
cept that he med ear, instead of eye. 

The interior of a peasant censitaire's dwelling changes 
littk from generation to generation. One may still see 
the crucifix over the principal bed, joints of cured meat 
banging from rafters, and the artillery of the house rest- 
ing there on hooks, A rough-built loom crowded inmates 
whom it clothed. And against the wall of the entrance 
side dangled a vial of holy water as a safeguard against 

DoHier de Casson stood up to admonish his little flock, 
gattiere4 from all the huts of the C6te> into silence before 
him. The men took off their rough caps and put them 
under their arms, standing in a disordered group together, 
Though respectful and obedient, they did not crowd their 
spiritual father with such wild eagerness as the women, 
who, on any seat found or carried in, sat hungrily, hush- 
ing around their knees the nipped French dialect of their 

M What is this, Antonio Brunette ? '* exclaimed Father 
de Casson after he had cast his eyes among them. 
** Could you n t wait my coming, when you well knew I 
purposed marrying you this time? You intend to have 
the wedding and the christening together? " 

** Father/' expostulated the swart youth, avoiding the 
priest to gaze sheepishly at his betrothed's cowering dis- 
tress, " Pierre's daughter is past sixteen, and we would 
have been married if you had been here. You know the 
king lays a fine on any father who lets his daughter pass 
sixteen without binding her in marriage, And Pierre is 
a very poor man/' 

** Therefore, to help Pierre evade his Majesty's fine, 
you must break the laws of Heaven, must you, my son? 
Hartjr pomace shall ye both do before I minister to you 
tte $a*xament of marriage. My children, the evil one 
prowls constantly along the banks of this river, while 
ytmr poor confessors can only reach you at intervals of 


months. Heed my admonitions. Where is Pierre's 

Down went Pierre's face between his hands into his 

*' Dead," he articulated from its hollow. " Without 
absolution. And the little baby on her arm, it went with 
her unbaptized." 

" God have pity on you, my children," said Doilier de 
Casson. " I will say masses over her grave, and it is well 
with the little, unblemished soul. How many children 
have you, Pierre ? " 

" Seventeen, father." 

44 Twenty-six, he should say, father," a woman near the 
priest declared. " For the widow of Jean Ba'ti 1 Morin 
has nine." 

" And why should Pierre count as his own the flock of 
Jean Ba'ti* Morin's widow ? M 

" Because he is to marry her, father, when Antonio 
Brunette marries his oldest girl." 

"If I come not oftener," remarked the priest, "you 
will all be changed about and newly related to each other 
so that I shall not know how to name ye. I will read the 
service for the dead over your first wife, Pierre, before 
I marry you to your second. It is irideed better to be 
dwelling in love than in discord. Have you had any dis- 
agreements ? " 

"No, father; but Jean Ba'ti's oldlest boy has taken to 
the woods and is off among the Indians, fearing his 
mother to farm alone, with only six little lads to help 

" Another coureur de bois," said the priest, in displeas- 

"Therefore, father/' opportunely put in Jean Ba'ti's 
widow, " I having no man at all, and Pierre having no 
woman at all, we thought to wed." 

" Think now of your sins," said Father de Casson, 
* from oldest to youngest After penance and absohitioa 
and examination in the faith ye shall have mass." 

The solemn performance of these religions duties began 
and proceeded until dusk obliterated all faces in tlie 


lighted cabiit Stump-roots were piled up in the fireplace, 
and Pierre's daughter, between her prayers, put on the 
evening meal to cook. 

If a child tittered at going under the confessional tent, 
its mother gave it a rear prod with admonishing hand. 
In that humbk darkness Father de Casson's ear received 
the whispers of all these plodding souls, and his tongue 
checked their evil aixl flourished their good. The cabin 
l>ecame a chapel full of kneeling figures telling beads. 

This portion of his duty finished, Dollier de Casson 
postponed the catechizing, and made Pierre take a lighted 
stick of pine am! show him that ridge whereunder mother 
and baby lay. There was always danger of surprise by 
the Iroquois, The men and women who followed in irreg- 
ular procession through the vast dimness of northern twi- 
light kept on their guard apinst moving stumps or any 
sudden uprising like the rush of quails from some covert. 
In rapid tones the priest repeated the service for the dead ; 
then ctlkd his followers from their knees to return to 
tb kmse to ctkbrtte the weddings of Pierre and Pierre's 

After this rite, supper was served in Pierre's house, 
the other families dispersing to their own tables cab- 
bage-smip, fat pork, and coarse bread made from pounded 
grain ; for this cote was too poor to have a mill. These 
were special luxuries for Father de Casson, for *te usual 
censitaire supper consisted of bread and eels. The mis- 
sionary priest, accustomed with equal patience fi> fasting 
or eating, spread his hands above unsavory steam and 
Messed the meal Silently, while he spoke, the door 
opened, and a slim, dark girl entered the house. The 
Rmmct Dottwri. 


RATLIN, GEORGE, an American explorer, artist, 
and author; born at Wilkesbarre, Pa., June 
26, 1796; died at Jersey City, N. J., December 
23, 1872. He early abandoned the profession of law 
for that of art, and became a portrait-painter. In 
1832 he set out upon a course of travel among the 
Indians of the Northwest, studying their history, tra- 
ditions, manners, and customs, and making numerous 
portraits and other pictures. The results of this jour- 
ney were embodied in the large work, profusely illus- 
trated, The Manners, Customs, and Condition of the 
North American Indians (1841). This was followed 
by The North American Portfolio of Hunting Scenes 
(1844) ; Eight Years' Travel and Residence in Europe 
(1848) ; The Breath of Life (1864) ; and, still later, 
Rambles among the Rocky Mountains omd the Andes. 
The first of these works is the one by wfakh mainly 
the author will be remembered. 


These people never bory the dead, but place tfee bodies 
on slight scaffolds just above the reach of tinman hands, 
and out of the way of wolves and dogs; and tfiey are 
there left to moulder and decay. This centetety, or place 
of deposit for the dead, is just back of the village, on a 
kvel prairie ; and, with all its appearances, history, forms, 
ceremonies, etc., is one of the strangest and most interest- 
ing objects to be described in the vicinity of tiiis peculiar 

Whenever a person dies in the Mandan village, awl the 
customary honors and condolence are paid to his remains, 
and the body dressed in its best attire, painted, oiled, 
feasted and supplied with bow and quiver, s&ield, pipe 
and tobacco knife, lint and steel, and provisions enough 


to last Mm a few days on the journey which he is to per- 
form; a fresh buffalo's skin, just taken from the animal's 
back, is wrapped around the body, and tightly bound and 
wound with thongs of raw hide from head to foot Then 
other robes are soaked in water, till they are quite soft 
and elastic, which are also bandaged around the body in 
the same manner, and tied fast with thongs, which are 
wound with great care ami exactness, so as to exclude the 
action of the air from all parts of the body. There is 
then a separate scaffold erected for it, constructed of four 
upright posts, a little higher than human hands can reach ; 
and on the tops of these are small poles passing around 
from one post to the others; across which are a number of 
willow-rods just strong enough to support the body* which 
is laid upon them on its back, with its feet carefully pre- 
sented toward the rising sun. 

There are a great number of these bodies resting ex- 
actly in a similar way ; excepting in some instances where 
a chief, or a medicine-man, may be seen with a few yards 
of scarlet or bltie cloth spread over his remains, as a mark 
of public respect and esteem. Some hundreds of these 
bodies tsay be seen reposing in this manner in this curious 
place, which the Indians call "the village of the dead; " 
and the traveller who visits this country to study and 
learn, will not only be struck with the novel appearance 
of the scene, but if he will give attention to the respect 
and devotions that are paid to this sacred place, he will 
draw many a moral deduction that will last him through 
life ; he will learn, at least, that filial, conjugal, and pater- 
nal affection are not necessarily the results of civilization ; 
kit that the Great Spirit has given them to man in his 
native state, ami that the spices and improvements of the 
enlightened world have never refined upon them. There 
is not a day in the year in which one may not see in this 
place evidences of A is fact that will wring tears from 
Ms eyes, and kindle in his bosom a spark of respect and 
sytiifttiy for the poor Indian, if he never felt it before. 
Fathers, motiieTS, wives, aod children, may be seen lying 
under tfie$e scaffolds, prostrated upon the ground, with 
tlietr faces in tbe dirt, howling forth incessantly the most 


piteous and heart-broken cries and lamentations for their 
kindred; tearing their hair cutting their flesh with their 
knives, and doing other penance to appease the spirits 
of the dead, whose misfortunes they attribute to some 
sin or omission of their own, for which they sometimes 
inflict the most excruciating self-torture. When the scaf- 
folds on which the bodies rest decay and fall to the 
ground, the nearest relations, having buried the rest of 
the bones, take the skulls, which are perfectly bleached 
and purified, and place them in circles of an hundred or 
more on the prairie placed at equal distances apart 
(some eight or nine inches from each other) with the 
faces of all looking to the centre; where they are reli- 
giously protected and preserved in their precise positions 
from year to year, as objects of religious and affectionate 

There are several of these ** Golgothas " or circles of 
twenty or thirty feet in diameter, and in the centre of 
each ring or circle is a little mound of three feet high, 
on which uniformly rest two buffalo skulls (a mak and 
female) ; and in the centre of the Httk mound is erected 
a "medicine pok," about twenty feet high, supporting 
many curious articles of mystery and superstition, which 
they suppose have the power of guarding and protecting 
this sacred arrangement Here, then, to this strange 
place do these people again resort, to evince their fur- 
ther affection for the dead not in groans and lamenta- 
tions, however, for several years have cured the anguish ; 
but fond affections and endearments are here raiewed, 
and conversations are here heM and cherished with the 
dead. Each one of these skulls is placed upon a bunch 
of wild sage, which has been pulled and placed under it 
The wife knows (by some mark or resemblance) the 
skull of her husband or her child, which lies in this group; 
and there seldom passes a day that she does not visit it 
with a dish of the best cooked food that her wigwam 
affords, which she sets before the skull at night, and re- 
turns for the dish in the morning. As soon as it is dis- 
covered that the sage on which the skull rests is begin- 
ning to decay the woman cuts a fresh bunch and places 


tfot detail carefully upon it, removing that which was 
under it 

Independent o! the above-named duties which draw the 
women to this spot, they visit it from inclination and 
linger upon it to hold converse and company with the dead. 
There is scarcely an hour in a pleasant day but more or 
less of these women may be seen sitting or lying by the 
skull of their child or husband talking to it in the most 
pleasant and endearing language that they can use (as 
they were wont to do in former days) and seemingly get- 
ting an answer back. It is not unfrequently the case that 
the woman brings her needle-work with her, spending 
the greater part of the day sitting by the skull of her 
child, chatting incessantly with it while she is embroider- 
ing or garnishing a pair of moccasins ; and perhaps over- 
come with fatigue, falls asleep, with her arms encircled 
anmad it, forgetting herself for hours; after which she 
gathers up her things and returns to the village. Man- 
, *t~, 0f tkt North American 

statesman, warrior, and author; surnamed 
"The Censor;" bora at Tusculurn, 234 B,C ; 
died 149 B.C He served in the Roman army at the 
age of seventeen, and distinguished himself alike by 
Ms valor and by his temperate life. He never drank 
anything but water, and always contented himself with 
tint very plainest food. By the interest of his friend,, 
Valerius Fbccus, he was appointed military tribune 
in Sicily; and afterward became quaestor in Africa 
under Sdpio, where he displayed strict economy in 
the expenditure; of the public money. After passing 
through ofaer employments he was chosen consul in 
195 B.O, IB wfefcfa station he had Valerius Flacctis for 


his colleague. He conducted the war in Further Spain 
with great success; and on his arrival at Rome was 
honored with a triumph. Eight years afterward he 
was elected censor, and exercised the functiGOS of that 
office with a stringency which passed into a proverb; 
and a statue was erected to him with a laudatory in- 
scription. In his later years, fearing the rivalry of 
Carthage, he always concluded his speeches m the 
Senate with the expression, " Delenda est Carthago!" 
He wrote a history of Roman affairs, of which only 
a few fragments remain ; but a treatise of his own hus- 
bandry is extant, bearing the title De Re Rnstica* 
Lives of Cato, by Cornelius Nepos, by Aurelius Victor, 
and by Plutarch, have come down to us ; and we have 
many particulars of his life and character in the writ- 
ings of Cicero and Livy. Cicero praises his composi- 
tions for their actiteness, their wit, and their concise- 
ness ; and speaks with emphasis of the impressiveness 
of Cato's eulogy and the satiric bitterness of his in- 


The bailiff shall maintain discipline; shall see to tlie 
observance of the holidays; and shall be watchful that 
the property of others is let alone, and that his own is 
taken care of. In the household, he shall be the arbitrator 
of disputes, and shall see to the punishment of those who 
are guilty of offence. He must see that the members of 
the household do not suffer; that they be neither cold nor 
hungry. Let him keep them from idleness; and thus they 
will be held back from thieving and al wrong-doing; for 
if the bailiff himself does not allow evil* no evil will co&ie 
to pass. Yet if the bailiff consent to wrong-doing, kt 
the master see that it be surely punished. Let the bailiff 
evince gratitude for any act of kiralness ; so that be wfe 
doeth well may joyfully continue in well-doing. Let ^e 


bailiff not be seen loafing about ; nor be drunken ; nor be 
a guest at feasts. Let him be diligent to keep the house- 
iiold active, and to see that all the commands of the mas- 
ter tfeeei^e prompt obedience. Nor let him think himself 
wiser than the master. Moreover, let the bailiff be the 
friend of his master* friends ; yet Jet him give no heed to 
any, except as he be so bidden of the master. Let him 
not meddle with priestly functions, unless it be beside the 
hearth and at the compitalia. Only by order of the mas- 
ter most the bailiff five credit; and then let him see that 
payments are punctually made. To none, except it be to 
only two or three families from whom he for con- 
venience must borrow must he lend the seed-corn; nor 
the utensils of the kitchen ; nor the barley ; nor the wine ; 
nor the oil Let him also render his account with the 
master frequently. Let him not allow over-time to the 
mechanic, the hired hand, nor the tool-grinder; nor buy 
without the knowledge of the master; nor secrete any- 
thing from the master ; nor have loungers about the place ; 
BOT seek to the sooth-sayer, the prophet, the priest, or the 
magician. Let him be acquainted with all the details of 
the work; and kt him put his own hand to them fre- 
quently, bat without fatigue. Thus will he know the 
minds of the workers ; and thus will they labor with more 
content; while he himself will not be longing to wander 
about, and his health and sleep will be good. And let 
the bailiff be the first to rise in the morning, and the last 
to retire at night; seeing to it that the doors are locked, 
ttiat all are asleep in their proper places, and that the 
eattk have been fed From De Agricwltura. 

{ATS, JAKOB, a Dutch poet; born at Brouwers- 
faairm, November 10, 1577; died near The 
Hague, September 12, 1660. He was edu- 
cated at Leytfcn and Orleans, and was an advocate in 
Ttie Hague and in Middlefourg. He represented his 


country twice at two very dissimilar Courts in Eng- 
land, that of Charles I., who knighted him in 1627, 
and that of Oliver Cromwell. Upon his return home 
he retired from public life, and in a rural retreat near 
The Hague betook himself to the cultivation of poetry. 
Cats was the people's poet, and was for generations 
known affectionately as " Father Cats." His poems 
on country life are full of good precepts of wisdom 
and virtue. His works include Houwelijck (Fidelity), 
which appeared in 1625 ; A Looking-Gloss of the Old 
Times and the New (1632), and The Wedding Rmg 
(1637). Edmund William Gosse perhaps expresses 
the present critical estimate of Cats in his article on 
the Literature of Holland, when he says : " In this 
voluminous writer the genuine Dutch habit of thought, 
the utilitarian and didactive spirit which we observe in 
Houwaert and in Boendale, reached its zenith of flu- 
ency and popularity. Cats was a man of large prop- 
erty and high position in the state, and his ideas never 
rose above the horizon of wealth and easy domestic 
satisfaction. He is an exceedingly dull and prosak 
writer, whose Alexandrines run smoothly on without 
any power of riveting the attention or delighting the 
fancy. Yet his popularity with the middle classes in 
Holland has always been immense, and his influence 
extremely hurtful to the growth of all branches of lit- 
erary art." 


We read in books of ancient lore 
An image stood in days of yore, 
Which, when the sun with splendor dight 
Cast on its Hps his golden light, 
Those lips gave back a silver sound. 
Which filled for hours the waste around; 



But when again the living Mmze 
Withdrew its musk-waking rays, 
Or passing clouds its splendor veiled, 
Or evening shades its face concealed, 
This image stood all silent there, 
Nor ket one whisper to the air, 

This was f old- And even now, 
The man who lives in fortune's glow 
Bears off the palm of sense and knowledge, 
la town and country, court and college, 
And all assert, mm. con., whatever 
Comes from his motith is vastly clever: 
Btit when the glowing sun retires, 
His reign is o'er, and dimmed his fires, 
And aH his praise Ifke vapor flies 
For wlio e'er calls a poor man wise ? 

born at Verona about 86 B.C ; died at Rome 
about 47 BX. He inherited a competent estate, 
and lived a life of pleasure. He was the earliest Latin 
lyric poet of any note. At an early age he went to 
Ream and enjoyed the society of the most celebrated 
men of the day, including Cicero, Caesar, and Pollkx 
On his arrival at the Imperial City he was possessed 
of considerable means, and this fact, together with his 
brilliant geaius and vivacity, brought him at once into 
fee society of men of the highest Intellectual activity 
and ftfaenjent of the time, as well as of the most 
profligate of the luxurious city, Catullus being a mere 
boy, iNxmstoned to the simple habits of his native prov- 
inoe, flisnged at dice into the deepest dissipation of 
the age. Ttie pate sustained by the more mature of 


his associates was more than the young man could 
endure, and he soon squandered his patrimony and 
undermined his health, and died just when his genius 
should have been a- ripening. He was remarkable 
for the versatility of his imagination, the loveliness of 
his conception, and the facility of his expression. His 
earlier poems record the various stages of his passion 
for a woman named Lesbia, who finally proved un- 
faithful to him, as she had to his predecessor in her 
affections. His poetic narration of the events of his 
time is as reliable as current history of more pretentious 
tone. His longest poem is The Ntfptials of Peku$ and 
Thetis, in hexameter verse. " His Atys" says Profes- 
sor William Ramsay, " is one of the most remarkable 
poems in the whole range of Latin literature. Rolling 
impetuously along in a flood of wild passion, bodied 
forth in the grandest imagery and the noblest diction, 
it breathes in every line the fiery vehemence of the 
Greek dithyramb. We admire by turns his unaffected 
ease, playful grace, vigorous simplicity, pungent wit, 
and slashing invective." 

About one hundred and sixteen poems attributed 
to him are extant, most of which are short Many of 
the poems are of an amatory character, with not tm- 
frequently a tone of grossness. Catullus has been a 
favorite subject of translation. There is a literal prose 
rendering by Walter Kelly, and several metrical ver- 
sions or rather imitations by various anthers. 


My little vbltune is complete, 
With all the care and polish neat 

That makes it fair to see: 
To whom shall I then to whose praise 


Inscribe my lively, graceful lays? 

Cornelius, friend, to thee. 
Thou only of the Italian race 
Hast dared in three small books to trace 

All time's remotest flight : 
O Jove, how labored, karned and wise ! 
Yet still thou ne'er wouldst quite despise 

The trifles that I write. 
Then take the book I now address, 
Though small its size, its merit less, 

Tis all thy friend can give: 
And kt me, guardian Muse, implore 
That when at least one age is o'er, 

This volume yet may live. 

Translation of GEORGE LAMB 


O best of all the scattered spots that lie 
In sea or lake apple of landscape's eye! 
How gladly do I drop within thy nest, 
With what a sigh of full, contented rest, 
Scarce able to believe my journey's o'er 
And that these eyes behold thee safe once more ! 
Oh where's the luxury like the smile at heart. 
When the mind, breathing, lays its load apart: 
When we come home again, tired out, and spread 
The loosened limbs o'er the all-wlshed-for bed ! 
This, this alone is worth an age of toil. 
Hail, lovely Sirmio! Hail, paternal soil I 
Joy, my bright waters, joy: your master's come! 
Laugh every dimple on the cheek of home. 

Translation of LEIGH HUNT. 


Quintim is beauteous in the millions 9 eye : 
Yes beauteous in particulars, I own; 

Falr-^ciniied, straight-shaped, tall-sized; yet I deny 
A beauteous whole; of charmingnss there's none; 

In all that height of figure there is not 

A seasoning spice of that I know not what; 


That fragrant something, grace without a name: 
But Lesbia's air is charming as her frame; 
Yes Lesbia, beauteous in one graceful whole, 
From all her sex their single graces stole. 

Translation of ELTON. 


I love thee and hate thee, but if I can tell 
The cause of my love and my hate, may I die ! 

I can feel it alas ! I can feel it too well, 
That I love thee and hate thee, but cannot tell why. 

Translation of MOOEE. 


Blest as the immortal gods is he, 
The youth who fondly sits by thee, 
And hears and sees thee all the while 
Softly speak and sweetly smile. 

'Twas that deprived my soul of rest, 
And raised such tumults in my breast; 
For while I gazed, in transport tost 
My breath was gone, my voice was lost. 

My bosom glowed ; the subtle flame 
Ran quick through all nay vital frame; 
On my dim eyes a darkness hung; 
My ears with hollow murmurs rang; 

With dewy damp my limbs were chilled; 
My blood with gentle horrors thrilled; 
My feeble pulse forgot to play; 
I fainted, sank, and died away. 

Translation of AMBROSE PHILLIPS 


WEIN, MADISON JULIUS, an American poet; 
born at Louisville, Ky., March 23, 1865. His 
verse is often exceedingly musical and displays 
great command of metres. He is at his best in his 
purely Kenttickian poems. His works include : Blooms 
of the Berry (1887) \ The Triumph of Music (1888) ; 
Accolon of Gaul (1889); Lyrics and Idyls (1890); 
Days and Dreams (1891); Moods and Memories 

(1892) ; Intimations of the Beautiful (1894) ; Poems 
of Nature and Love (1893) 5 &*& Leaves and Roses 

(1893) ; Undertones (1895) ; The Garden of Dreams 
(1896) ; Shapes and Shadows (1898) ; Idyllic Mono- 
logues (1898) ; Myth and Romance (1899) ; One Day 
and Another (1901) ; Weeds by the WaU (1902). 


There is a field that leans upon two hills, 

Foamed o'er with flowers, and twinkling with clear rills; 

That, in its girdle of wild acres, bears 

The anodyne of rest that cures all cares; 

Wherein soft wind and sun and sound are blent, 

And fragrance as in some old instrument 

Sweet chords- calm things, that nature's magic spell 

Distils from heaven's azure crucible, 

And pours on earth to make the sick mbd weH. 

There lies the path, they say 

Gonse away I Come away! 


Tfieire is m forest, tying *twixt two streams, 

Sung tbH>Qfii of Mitts and haunted of dim dreams; 

Urn* in its feagtie4oiif band of trunk and leaf 



Lifts a green wand that charms away all grief; 
Wrought of quaint silence and the stealth of things. 
Vague, whispering touches, gleams and twitterings, 
Etews and cool shadows that the mystic soul 
Of nature permeates with suave control 
And waves o'er earth to make the sad heart whole. 

There lies the road they say 

Come away! Come away! 

|AXTON, WILLIAM, the first English poster; 
born in Kent about 1422; died at London 
about 1492. Few details of Ms life are known. 
He says : " I was born and lerned myn englissh in 
Kente in the weeld, where I doubte not is spoken as 
brode and rude englis&h as is in ony place of engkHKL** 
He thanks his parents for giving him a good educa- 
tion. In 1438 he was apprenticed to a merchant, upon 
whose death he went to Bruges, where be entered into 
btisiness for himself, became governor of a C&m$mj 
of Merchant Adventurers, and was twice sent ID nego- 
tiate a treaty with the Dttke of Burgundy eoiiceniiiig 
the wool-trade. In 1471 he entered the service of 
Margaret, the Dtichess of Burgundy. About tte ti&ie 
he learned the art of printing. The irsfe book printed 
in English was The Recuyett f the Hl$$@r&y$ f Tr&$, 
the translation of wtiidh CaxtQa tod begin in 1469, 
and bad finished after he entered the serrlce of the 
Dtjcl&m Tbe year of his return to England is tm- 
certai. The Gom and Ptaye of Ck&ss# MoraUsid, 
printed in 1474, is said to fwve come fmm tris press 
at Westminster ; but the first bode fcoown certaitti j *# 
have been printed in England is tik Dictes md 

VOL. V. 17 


Wy$g Sayenges of the Phyhsophers, which bears the 
date 1477. No fewer than ninety-nine works, many 
of them translated into English by Caxton, are known 
to have been printed by him. Among them are The 
Chronicles of England ( 1480) ; Description of Britayne 
(1480); The History of Reynart, the Foxe (1481); 
Confessio Amaniis (1483); The Golden Legende 
( 1483) ; The Knyghte of the Toure (1484) ; The Sub- 
tyl History^ md Fables of Esope ( 1484) ; The Lyf of 
Charles the Crete (1485); The Book of Fay ties of 
Armes and of Chymlrye (1489), and The Arte and 
Cmfte to Know Well to Dye ( 1490). Caxton 's indus- 
try ceased only with life. The translation of the Vita 
P&trum was completed by him a few hours before he 


Now, ttien, I will fcuish all these fables with this tale 
that folbwetti, which a worshipful priest and a parson 
told me late : He said that there were dwelling at Ox- 
enford two priests, both Masters of Arts of whom 
that one was quick and could put himself forth; and 
that other was a good, simple priest And so it hap- 
pened that the master that was pert and quick was anon 
promoted to a benefice or twain, and after to prebends, 
and for to be a dean of a great prince o* chapel, sup- 
posing and weening that his fellow, the simple priest, 
slioiild never be promoted, but be always an annual, or, 
at tfae most, a parish priest So, after a long time that 
this worshipful man, this dean, came running into a good 
pftfisli with Ive or seven horses, like a prelate, and came 
into ttie church of the said parish, and found there this 
food, sisipk man, sometime his fellow, which came and 
welosd titnj lowly. And that other bade him " Good 
morrow, Master John," and took him slightly by the 
and axed him wtiere he dwelt. And the good man 
- la tiis psuisk* How," said he, are ye here a 


sole priest, or a parish priest?" "Nay, sir, w said be, 
" for lack of a better, though I be not abk nor worthy, 
I am parson and curate of this parish," And then that 
other vailed [lowered] his bonnet, and said, "Master 
Parson, I pray you to be not dispkased ; I had supposed 
ye had not been beneficed. But, master," said he, " I pray 
you what is this benefice worth to you a year?" u For- 
sooth," said the good, simple man, " I wot never ; for I 
never make accompts thereof, how well I have had it 
four or five years." " And know ye not," said he, " what 
it is worth? it should seem a good benefice/* ** No, 
forsooth," said he, "but I wot well what It shall be 
worth to me/' "Why," said he, "what shall it be 
worth?" "Forsooth," said he, "if I do my true deal- 
ing in the cure of my parishes in preaching and teach- 
ing, and do my part belonging to my cure, I shall have 
heaven therefore. And if their souls be lost, or any of 
them by my default, I shall be punished therefore. Ami 
hereof I am sure." And with that word the rich dean 
was abashed: and thought he should be the better, and 
take more heed to his cures and benefices than he had 
done. This was a good answer of a good priest and an 
honest. And herewith I finish this book, translated ami 
imprinted by me, William Caxton. Fable told by 
at the end of Msop's Fdbks* 

fcELLINI, BENVENUTO, a Florentine artist, whose 
Autobiography is a famous Italian classic; 
born November 10, 1500; died February 13, 
1571. He served an apprenticeship with a jeweller 
and goldsmith, and at the same time applied himself 
to the study of drawing, engraving, and music. He 
was appointed by Qement VII. his goldsmith and 
musician. Being of a very turbulent disposition, he 
was frequently engaged in quarrels, in one of which 


he so severely wounded his antagonist that he was 
forced to make his escape from Florence to Rome in 
the disguise of a friar. Here he distinguished himself 
by his courage in defending the citadel against the 
Constable Bourbon, whom he says he killed as he at- 
tempted to scale the city walls. He also defended the 
Castle of St. Angelo; and the Prince of Orange he 
declares was killed by the ball which was shot from a 
cannoci he had directed After this he was employed 
to engrave stamps for the mint, and the coins and 
medals which he executed are very beautiful. On the 
death of Qemnet VIL, in 1534, he returned to Flor- 
ence, whence he went to France, where he was patron- 
ized by Francis I. But soon quitting that country, he 
revisited Rome where he was confined for a long time 
in the Castk of St Angelo on the charge of having 
robbed the fortress of a considerable treasure when he 
had formerly had the care of it He escaped, but was 
retaken, and suffered great hardships until released 
by the mediation of Cardinal Ferrara. He then re- 
visited France, where he executed some fine works of 
sculpture and cast large figures in metal, which gained 
him a high reputation. After staying there five years 
he returned to his own country, and was employed by 
the Grand Duke Cosimo de Medici, who gave him a 
studio, where he commenced his great work, Perseus. 
The story of the casting of Cellini's Perseus has played 
an important part in later literature. The success of 
ibis performance was so great that, in gratitude, the 
artist wait on a pilgrimage to Vallombrosa and Camal- 
ddi He now contested the palm of glory with Bandi- 
nclli for a design of Neptune ; and when his work was 
the best, his rival died of grief. Cellini's 


fame was now established, and he spent the remainder 
of his days in Florence. He worked equally well in 
marble and metal, and wrote a treatise on the gold- 
smith's art and another on sculpture and the casting of 
metals. His Autobiography, having long circulated in 
manuscript, was printed in 1730. Goethe translated it 
into German, and it has been rendered into English by 
W. Roscoe and J. A. Symonds. " From the pages of 
this book," says Mr. Symonds, " the Genius of Renais- 
sance, incarnate in a single personality, leans forth and 
speaks to us. ... Cellini is the most candid of 
autobiographers, and as ignorant of shame as fee is 


My brother, younger than myself by two years, a very 
bold and hot-headed boy (who was then about fourteen, 
and I two years older), one Sunday, between the Porta 
San Gallo and the Porta Pinta, got into a quarrel witfe 
a youth of twenty, sword in hand, and pressed him so 
closely that he gave him a severe wound, and was pro- 
ceeding further ; but a great crowd had gathered, araoi^ 
which were many friends of his antagonist, wh% witea 
they saw things going badly for their friend, began to 
throw stones, one of which struck my poor young brother 
on the head, so that he fell down as if dead I, wlio 
happened to be present, though without eittier frkiMis 
or arms, called out to my brother to withdraw, as be 
had done enough. As soon as fee fell dwn, I raslicd 
to him and, seizing his sword, pkced myself in front 
of him, against many swords and stones lifted against 
me aor ev er kft my brother till wmz brave soldiers 
came from the Porta San Gallo and saved me from the 
crowd, wooderiag much to find such courage in one so 
young, I the took my brother home for dead: and it 
was n0 easy matter to bring him to himself, Fr&m to 



Potnpeo had gone into an apothecary's shop at the 
corner of the Chiavica, on some business of his own: 
but I was told he was boasting of having braved me, 
which was very unfortunate for him. As I arrived at 
the corner he came out of the shop, and his bravos 
opened their ranks and received him in their midst. I 
put my hand to a sharp little dagger I had, and forcing 
my way through the bravos, laid hold of him by the 
breast with such rapidity and certainty that none of 
them could interfere. As I pulled him toward me, he 
turned away his face, m his terror, and I struck him 
below the ear. At the second stroke he fell dead, which 
was not my intention; but, as people say, blows are not 
bargained for. I then retired by the Strada Julia, medi- 
tating where to talce refuge. From His Autobiography. 


Once when I was in prison, in a terrible dream, words 
of the greatest importance were written on my fore- 
head, as with a pen; and he who did it charged me 
three times to keep silence and betray it to no one. 
When I awoke I found my forehead marked; in my 
poem of The Capitol, written in prison, an account is 
given of several such events. I was also told, without 
knowing who said it, of all that would happen to Signer 
Pier Luigi, so clear and distinct that I have always be- 
liered that it came from an angel of Heaven. And I 
eanrot here refrain from mentioning one thing, the most 
wonderful that has ever happened to any man, which I 
my m justification of God and his secret ways, which 
lie condescended to make me worthy to know that 
Ube tisse when I saw these things there rested a 
(inexplicable miracle!) upon my head, which 
ha* been evident to every man to whom I have chosen 
t &0w i though these have been very few. This can 
be perceived atwe any shadow in the morning, from the 
irtstnf of the SOT to two o'clock, and most distinctly 


when the grass is still wet with dew; also it is visible in 
the evening when the sun sinks toward the north, I be- 
came aware of it in Paris, because the air there is much 
clearer, and it showed much better than la Italy, where 
clouds are more general; but everywhere I can see it, 
and show it to others, though never so well as in 
France. From the Memoirs. 


Oh troubled spirit mine, 
Cniel! how sad is this surviving! 

If 'gainst us stands the will Divine, 
Who is there for us, succor giving? 
Away, away to better living. 

Ah, wait awhile 

For happier days will be, 
Heaven promises, than e'er you knew before* 

The coming hours will smile, 

Since the great God has granted free 
Grace that will never turn to weeping 

actress and dramatist; born in Ireland about 
1670 ; died at London, December i, 1723. Her 
father, a Mr. Freeman, had been forced to See from 
England at the restoration of Charles IL, on account 
of his adherence to the cause of Parliament The 
daughter, having been left an orphan, came to Lon- 
don, and at the age of sixteen was married to a tiephew 
of Sir Stephen Fox, the founder of the family of that 
name. Her husband dying within a year, she married 
a military officer named Carroll, who was some eigiifc- 


een months after killed in a duel, His widow went 
upon the stage, arid also wrote several dramatic works, 
which were popular in their day; some of which, as 
The Busybody and A Bold Stroke for a Wife, are still 
occasionally produced upon the stage. At the age of 
thirty-eight she married Joseph Centlivre, chief cook 
to Queen Anne. Mrs. Centlivre led an irreproachable 
life, and her wit and beauty rendered her a favorite 
in literary society. Her dramatic works were printed 
m 1761, and subsequently in 1872. The Busybody, 
in which Marplot is the leading character, ranks high 
among English comedies. The Busybody was first 
acted at Drury Lane, May 12, 1709. It was one of 
the most successful, as it is generally regarded as the 
best, of Mrs. Centlivre's plays, which number eighteen 
in alt Nevertheless, it was at first so coldly regarded 
by the actors that Wilkes is said to have thrown down 
his part of Sir George Airy, and to have been with 
difficulty induced to resume it A part of the plot is 
taken from Ben Jonson's The Devil Is an Ass. Steele, 
In the Toller, speaks of The Busybody, and says that 
the " plot is laid with that subtlety of spirit which is 
peculiar to females of wit." Martin Marplot, a silly, 
cowardly, inquisitive fellow, is not unlike Dryden's 
Mar-all, and is generally regarded as the original of 
the later Paul Pry. This character was first intro- 
dticed in The Busybody, and was more fully developed 
is the comedy Marplot in Lisbon. 


Chrto ,~- Sir George, here's a gentleman has a pas- 
sionate desire to kiss your hand. 
Sir George* Ofe, I honor men of the sword, and I 


presume this gentleman has lately come from Spain or 
Portugal, by his scars. 

Marplot. No, really, Sir George, mine sprung from 
civil fury. Happening last night into the Groom-Por- 
ter's, I had a strong inclination to go ten guineas with 
a sort of a sort of a kind of a milksop, as I thoogtit 
Devil take the dice he flung out; and my pockets betg 
empty, as Charles here knows they often are, be proved 
a surly North Briton and broke my face foe my defr- 

Sir George. Ha ! ha ! and did you not draw ? 

Marplot. Draw, Sir ! why I did but lay my hand upon 
my sword, to make a swift retreat, and he ixmred out: 
" Now the Deel a ma sol, Sir, gin ye touch yer steel Ise 
whip mine through yer wem ! n 

Sir George. Ha! ha! ha! 

Charles. Ha ! ha ! ha ! ha ! safe was the word, so yoa 
walked off, I suppose. 

Marplot. Yes ; for I avoid fighting, purely to be serv- 
iceable to my friends, you know. 

Sir George. Your friends are much obliged to you, 
Sir ; I hope you'll rank me in that number. 

Marplot. Sir George, a bow from the side box, or to 
be seen in your chariot, binds me ever yours- 

Sir George. Trifles ; you may OHnmaiad 'em when ym 

Charles. Provided he may command you 

Marplot. Me ! why, I live for no other prapc^e. Sir 
George, I have the honor to be caressed by most of die 
reigning toasts of the town; 111 tell *em ytm are Ae 
finest gentleman . 

Sir George. No, no, prithee let me atone to tell Hie 

Fr&m the Bnsybody. 


Spanish poet and novelist ; born near Madrid, 
Spain, October 9, 1547; died there, April 23, 
1616. He was of a respectable family, and is said to 
have spent two years at the University of Salamanca, 
and to have studied afterward in Madrid. In 1568 he 
went to Italy in the service of Cardinal Aquaviva, and 
two years afterward became a soldier. He distin- 
guished himself at the naval battle of Lepanto, where 
his left hand was shattered by a gunshot. After five 
years of army life he obtained leave of absence; but 
on his way to Spain was taken prisoner, and sent to 
Algiers, where he remained a captive for five years. 
He was at length ransomed by his friends, and re-en- 
tered the army, in which he continued to serve until 
1583. He then began his literary career, (his first 
work being a prose pastoral entitled Galatea, In 1584 
be married. During the next ten years he wrote about 
thirty dramas, of which only two survive. In 1588 he 
wait to Seville as Commissioner to the Indian squad- 
roes, and helped to victual the ships of the Spanish 
Armada. For several years after this time his life is 
involved in obscurity. He is said to have visited La 
ilaacha, and to have been imprisoned there on a 
charge of malversation in office. It is said that while 
in prisoci he conceived the idea of Don Quixote. In 
1603 fee was living in Valkdolid. In 1604 he pub- 
the first part of Dan Quixote, which ran through 
few editions in a single year. In 1613 he published 
N&wls Bxempkres, or Didactic Tales, twelve stories 
wfakfa display a thorough acquaintance with every 
phase of Spanish life. The next year appeared Cer- 



vantes's most successful poem, a burlesque entitled 
Viage al Parnassus, and a volume of plays. During 
this year (1614) his tranquillity was disturbed by the 
appearance of a book purporting to be a continuation 
of the adventures of Don Quixote, in which the knight 
is a raging maniac and the squire a dull buffoon. To 
this book Cervantes refers several times in his own 
Second Part, which was published late in 1615. He 
was now impoverished and diseased. On the 4th of 
April, 1616, he entered the order of Franciscans, and 
died within three weeks. 


Soon after Don Quixote discovered a man on horse- 
back, who had on his head something which glittered as 
if it had been of gold; arid scarcely had he seen it when, 
turning to Sancho, he said, " I am of opinion, Sanctio, 
there is no proverb but what is true, because they are 
all sentences drawn from experience itself, the motte* 
of all the sciences ; especially that which says, ' Where 
one door is shut another is open.* I say this because if 
fortune last night shut the door against what we sotigtil, 
deceiving us with the fulling-mills, it now opens wide 
another, for a better and more certain adventure; in 
which, if I am deceived, the fault will be mine, without 
imputing it to my ignorance of fulling-mills or to the 
darkness of night This I say because, if I mistake not, 
there comes one towards us who carries on his head 
Mambrino's helmet, concerning which Aon mayest re- 
member I swore the oath." **Take care, sir, what you 
say, and more what you do," said Sancfeo; u f or I would 
not wish for other fulling-mills to finish the milling and 
mashing of our senses/*" The devl! take tliee," replied 
Don Quixote: "what has a helmet to do with falling- 
mills? "" I know not," answered Sancho, " bdt, in faith, 
if I might talk as mtich as I used to do, perhaps I enM 
give such reasons that your worship would see ypa affc 
mistaken in what you say" -"How can I be mistaken 


IB what I say, thou scrupulous traitor ? " said Don Quix- 
oCe, " Tell me, seest thou not yon knight coming towards 
us on a dapple-gray steed, with a helmet of gold on his 
head ! " " What I see and perceive/* answered Sancho, 
** is Ofiiy a man on a gray ass, like mine, with some- 
tiling 011 his head that glitters.*'" Why, that is Mam- 
brino's helmet/' &aid Don Quixote. " Retire, and leave 
me alone to deal with him, and thou shalt see how, in 
order to save time, I shall conclude this adventure with- 
out speaking a word, and the helmet I have so much 
desired remain my own." . . . 

Now the truth of the matter concerning the helmet, 
the steed, and the knight which Don Quixote saw was 
this: There were two villages in that neighborhood, one 
of them so small that it had neither shop nor barber, but 
the other adjoining to it had both; therefore the barber 
of the larger served also the less, wherein one customer 
BOW wanted t& let blood, and another to be shaved; to 
perform which, the barber was now on his way, carrying 
witb him his brass basin; and it so happened that while 
upon tlie road it began to rain, and to save his hat, 
which was a new one, he clapped the basin on his head, 
which, being lately scoured, was seen glittering at the 
distance of half a league; and he rode on a gray ass, as 
Saiicho had affirmed. Thus Don Quixote took the bar- 
ber for a knight, his ass for a dapple-gray steed, and 
his basin for a golden helmet; for whatever he saw was 
quickly adapted to his knightly extravagances; and when 
db poor knight drew near, without staying to reason the 
case with him, he advanced at Rosinante's best speed, 
aiid couched his lance, intending to run him through 
and through; but, when close upon him, without check- 
ing the fury of his career, he cried out, " Defend thyself, 
caitiff! or instantly surrender what is justly my due." 

The barber, so unexpectedly seeing this phantom ad- 
vancing uf>oo him, had no other way to avoid the thrust 
of the lance than to slip down from the ass; and no 
sooner tiad he touched the ground than, leaping up 
nimbler than a roebuck, he scampered over the plain 
witb such speed thtfe the wind could not overtake him. 


The basin he left on the ground ; with which Don Quixote 
was satisfied, observing that the pagan had acted dis- 
creetly, and in imitation of the beaver, which, when 
closely pursued by the hunters, tears off with his teeth 
that which it knows by instinct to be the object of pur- 
suit He ordered Sancho to take tap the helmet; who, 
holding it In his hand, said, " Before Heaven, the basin 
is a special one, and is well worth a piece of eight, if 
it is worth a farthing." He then gave it to his master, 
who immediately placed it upon his head, turning it 
round in search of 'the vizor ; but not finding it he said, 
" Doubtless the pagan for whom this famous helmet was 
originally forged must have had a prodigious head tfoe 
worst of it is that one-half is wanting." 

When Sancho heard the basin called a helmet, he cooM 
not forbear laughing; which, however, he instantly 
checked on recollecting his master's late choler. " What 
dost thou laugh at, Sancho?" said Don Quixote, M I 
am laughing," answered he, " to think what a huge head 
the pagan had who owned that helmet, which is for aU 
the world just like a barber's basin." "Knowest tiion, 
Sancho, what I conceive to be the case? This famous 
piece, this enchanted helmet, by some strange accident, 
must have fallen into the possession of one, who, ignorant 
of its true value as a helmet, and seeing it to be of tlie 
purest gold, hath inconsiderately melted down Ac one- 
half for lucre's sake, and of the other half made tMs, 
which, as thou sayest, doth indeed, look like a barter's 
basin: but to me, who know what it reaHy is, its trans- 
formation is of no importance, for I will feave it so 
repaired in the first town where there is a smiHi, tiiat it 
shall no be surpassed, or even equalled by tfeat which 
the god of smiths himself made aed forged for the god 
of battks. In the meantime I will wear it as I best can, 
for something is better than nothing, and it will bt 
sufficient to defend me from stones/* " It will so,* said 
Sancho, " if they do not throw them with slings, as ttiey 
did in the battle of the two armies, when tliey crossed 
your worship's chaps, . . . But setting this aside, tcH 
me, sir, what sbafl we do with this dapple-gray steed 


which looks so much like a gray ass, and which that 
caitiff whom your worship overthrew has left behind 
here to shift for itself? for, by his scouring off so hastily, 
he does not think of ever returning for him: and, by 
my beard, the beast is a special one," " It is not ray 
custom," said Don Quixote, to " plunder those whom I 
have overcome, nor is it the usage of chivalry to take 
from the vanquished their horses and leave them on 
foot, unless the victor had lost his own in the conflict; 
in such case it is lawful to take that of the enemy as 
fairly won in battle. Therefore, Sancho, leave this horse 
or ass, or whatever thou wilt have it to be; for when we 
are gone his owner will return for him." " God knows 
whether it were best for me to take him," replied Sancho, 
w or at least to exchange him for mine, which, methinks, 
is not so good* Verily, the laws of chivalry are very 
strict if they do not even allow the swopping of one ass 
for another; but I would fain know whether I might 
exchange furniture, if I were so inclined?" "I am not 
very clear as to that point/* answered Don Quixote; 
" and, being a doubtful case, until better information 
can be had, I think thou mayest make the exchange, if 
thou art in extreme want of them/' " So extreme," re- 
plied Sancho, " that I could not want them more if they 
were for my own proper person." Thus authorized, he 
proceeded to an exchange of caparisons, and made his 
own beast three parts in four the better for his new 

Being thus refreshed and comforted both in body and 
mind, they mounted; and, without determining upon 
what road to follow, according to the custom of knights- 
errant, they went oti as Rosinante's will directed, which 
was a guide to his master and also to Dapple, who 
always followed in love and good-fellowship, wherever 
fee led the way. Don Quixote; translation of JARVIS. 


At tilts time Don Quixote came up to them, and hear- 
ing ttow soon Saudio was to depart to his government, 
be look him % the hand and, with the duke's leave, 


led him to his chamber, in order to give him some advice 
respecting his conduct in office; and having entered, he 
shut the door, and, almost by force made Sancho sit 
down by him, and with much solemnity addressed him 
in these words: 

"I am thankful to Heaven, friend Sancho, that even 
before fortune has crowned my hopes prosperity has gone 
forth to meet thee. I, who had trusted in my own suc- 
cess for the reward of thy services, am still but on the 
road to advancement, whilst thou, prematurely, and be- 
fore all reasonable expectations, art come into full pos- 
session of thy wishes. Some must bribe, importune, 
solicit, attend early, pray, persist, and yet do not obtain 
what they desire; whilst another comes and, without 
knowing how, jumps at once into the preferment for 
which so many had sued in vain. It is truly said tliat 
* merit does much, but fortune more*' Thou, who in re- 
spect of me art but a very simpleton, without either early 
rising or late watching, without labor of body or mind, 
by the air alone of knight-errantry breathing on tliee, 
findest thyself the governor of an island, as If it were 
a trifle, a thing of no account! All this I say, friend 
Sancho, that thou mayest not ascribe the favor dotie tliee 
to thine own merit, but give thanks, first to Heaven, 
which disposeth things so kindly; ami, in the next place, 
acknowledge with gratitude the inherent grandeur of tlie 
profession of knight-errantry. Thy heart being disposed 
to believe what I have now said to tfiee, be attentive, 
my son, to me, thy Cato, who will be thy counselor, 
thy north star, and thy guide, to conduct and steer tibee 
safe into port, out of that tempestuous sea upon wtitcii 
thou art going to embark, and where ttoti wilt be in 
danger of being swallowed up in ttie gulf of confusion. 
First, my son, fear God; for to fear Him is wisdom, 
and being wise, thou canst not err. S&c&ndly> consider 
what thou art, and endeavor to teow thyself, which Is 
the most difficult study of all others. The knowledge 
of thyself will preserve tfiee from vanity, and the fate 
of tibe frog that foolishly vied with the ox will serve 
tibee as a caution; the recollection, too, of having been 


foraerly a swine-herd in thine own country will be to 
tliee, in tbe loftiness of thy pride, like the ugly feet of 
tfee peacock" 

" It is true," said Sancho, " that I once kept swine ; 
but I was only a boy then; when I grew toward a man 
I looked after geese, and not hogs. But this, methinks, 
is nothing to the purpose, for all governors are not de- 
scended from kings," 

"That I grant," replied Don Quixote; "and there- 
fore those who have not the advantage of noble descent 
shotiW fail not to grace the dignity of the office they 
bear with gentleness and modesty, which when accom- 
pxnied with discretion, will siknce those murmurs which 
few situations in life can escape. Conceal not the mean- 
ness of thy family, nor think it disgraceful to be de- 
scended from peasants; for, when it is seen that thou art 
oat thyself ashamed, none wiH endeavor to make thee 
m; and deem it more meritorious to be a virtuous, humble 
mm ttiau a lofty sinner. . . . Remember, Sancho, if 
tkm takest virtue for the rule of life, and valuest thy- 
#df upon acting m all things conformably thereto, thou 
wilt have no cause to envy lords and princes; for blood 
is inherited, but virtue is a common property, and may 
be acquired by all; it, has, moreover, an intrinsic worth 
which blood has not This being so, if peradventure 
any one of thy kindred visit thee in thy government, 
do not slight or affront him, but receive, cherish, and 
make much of him; for in so doing thou wilt please 
God, who allows none of His creatures to be despised; 
and tfaon wilt also manifest therein a well-disposed nature. 

** If tbon takest thy wife with thee (and it is not well 
for those who are appointed to governments to be long 
sefiiurate! from their families), teacti, instruct, and polish 
liar {run tier natural rudeness ; for it often happens that 
aS the coswideratlon a wise governor can acquire is 
tost iy *a IB-fared and foolish woman. If thou shouldst 
foocM* a wi$0wer (an event wliich is possible), and 
fly sWjcjn entitle tibee to a better match, seek not one 
CD >anp Hiee for a liook and angling-rod, or a friar's 
hood 10 receive ate in; for, believe me f whatever tbe 


judge's wife receives, the husand must account for at 
the general judgment, and shall be made to pay four- 
fold for all that of which he has rendered BO account 
during his life. 

" Be not under the dominion of t&ine own wiU ; it is 
the vice of the ignorant, who vainly presume on tiieir 
own understanding. Let the tears of the poor find more 
compassion, but not more justice, with thee than tfoe 
applications of the wealthy. Be equally solicitous to sift 
out the truth amidst the presents and promise of the 
rich and the sighs and entreaties of the poor. When- 
ever equity may justly temper the rigor of the law, 
let not the whole force of it bear upon the delinquent; 
for it is better that a judge shouW lean on the sMe of 
compassion than severity. If perchance the scales of 
justice be not correctly balanced, let the error be Ira- 
putable to pity, not to gold. If perchance the cause of 
thine enemy come before thee, forget thy injuries and 
think only of the merits of the case. Let not private 
affection blind thee in another man's cause; for the er- 
rors thou shalt thereby commit are often without remedy, 
and at the expense both of thy reputation and fortune 
When a beautiful woman comes before thec to demand 
justice, consider maturely the nature of her claim, with- 
out regarding either her tears or her sighs, unless tt*on 
wouldst expose thy judgment to the danger of being k>t 
in the one, and thy integrity in the other, 

" Revile not with words him whom thou feast to cor- 
rect with deeds; the punishment which tbe unhappy 
wretch is doomed to suffer is sufficient, without the ad- 
dition of abusive language, When ttie criminal stands 
before thee, recollect the frail and depraved nature of 
man, and, as much as than canst wittiont injustice to 
the suffering party, show pity and clemency; for though 
the attributes of God are equally adorable, yet His mercy 
is more shining and attractive in our eyes than His 

"'If, Sandjo, thou observest these precepts, thy days 
will be long and thy fame eternal thy recompense fttfl, 
and thy felicity unspeakable. Thou shalt marry thy dbil- 
VQL. V, 18 


drai fco thy heart's content, and they and thy grand- 
children shall want neither honors nor titles. Beloved 
by a!! men, thy days shall pass in peace and tranquillity ; 
and, when the inevitable period comes, death shall steal 
cm fhee in a good and venerable old age, and thy grand- 
children's children, with their tender and pious hands, 
shall close thine eyes." Don Quixote; translation of 

scientist and educator ; born at North Berwick, 
Me,, October 21, 1823; died at New York, 
February 23, 1^3. After his graduation from Wil- 
liams College, in 1848, he became Professor of Natural 
History and Chemistry at Bowdoin College, and subse- 
quently at Williams. In 1867 he was elected President 
of the University of Wisconsin ; in 1872 President of 
Williams College, and in 1882 President of the 
Massachusetts Agricultural College at Amherst. His 
works are : The Relations of Natural History to In- 
tellect, Taste, Wealth and Religion; Natural Theology; 
Instinct in Animals and Men; and Strength of Men and 
Stability of Natwns. 

41 President Chadbourne " we quote from The Lit- 
wrmy World" was a scientist as well as a theologian, 
a maa who understood nature as well as philosophy, 
who knew how to investigate facts as well as to reason 
from than, Such men take vastly broader views than 
the mere specialist, and unfortunately usually have a 
smaller following than the mere dogmatist." To the 
trigonous and tireless energy of Dr. Chadbourne the 
editor of Appleton's Annml penned in 1883 the fol- 


lowing just tribute : " Activity and zeal were specially 
prominent in his career. He travelled extensively in 
his own country, as well as in foreign lands. His life 
was full of adventure, of singular vicissitudes, and of 
noble, memorable work, He served four institutions 
of learning, three of them as president He led parties 
for scientific exploration and research; he managed 
large and important business enterprises ; and he pub- 
lished a number of scientific books. He was a theo- 
logian, too, of no mean power, and his mind and heart 
were at rest in possessing and enjoying those truths 
firmly held by the denomination with which he was 


This apparent forethought in preparing materials and 
storing them for a time of need is not manifested by 
the trees alone, but in a greater or less degree it is 
exercised by every plant that grows more manifest is 
it in those that live more than a single year. What 
wonders are performed beneath our very feet! If we 
could look beneath the thick woven sward of the mead- 
ows, or roll back the decaying leaves of the forest, or 
pluck up the thickened root-stocks of the water lily and 
kindred forms from their oozy beds beneath the shallow 
lakes, we should find in every place evidence of instinct- 
like forethought among the plants and provision for 
their future wants. When tbe frost of autumn and ice 
of winter have covered the earth with death, so that 
to the eye there seems to be bat mere remnants of 
withered grass and herbage, we still wait in confident 
expectation that spring will wake new forms to sudden 
life from hidden germs, as by enchantment In roots 
of grass and bulb of lily, in all tfie thousand storehouses 
beneath the soil, the basy, pnident plants have laid tip 
their provisions ready for instant use not to preserve 
life in winter bat for tlieir spring's work in bringing 


sudden beauty of leaf and flower upon the earth, when 
wakened to activity from their winter's sleep. They 
answer to the call of the great magician, the Sun, whose 
touch dissolves, as by enchantment, the flinty soil and 
palsying power of winter; and now with eager haste 
they utilize the stores of food which they carefully re- 
served the year before, when they seemed to be living 
to the extent of their means. There is no such foolish 
extravagance in the plant economy as living to the full 
extent of income each year* except when the time has 
come for the plants to pass away, and then, with true 
parental instinct, they bequeath all they possess to their 
children; which bequest is always found to be just 
enough to start the young plantlets well in life, till 
large enough to work and gather materials for them- 
selves. All the wealth of beauty in early spring the 
green blade of grass the fragrant Arbutus of the hill- 
side and the golden Caltha by the brook these all are 
the products of plant labor of the former year. These 
slow, secret processes are hid from the eye of the most 
careful observer, and they would never be known were 
it not for die sudden display of leaf and flower in 
springtime that reveals the secret of this hoarded 
wealth. Instinct in Animals and Men. 

|HADWICK, JOHN WHITE, an American cler- 
gyman and author; born at Marblehead, 
Mass., October 19, 184.0; died at Brooklyn, 
N. Y. r December n, 1904, He was educated at Exe- 
ter Academy and at Harvard ; and studied theology at 
the Harvard Divinity School In 1864 he was or- 
dained and became pastor of the Second Unitarian 
Society in Brooklyn, N. Y. One of his books, a vol- 
ume of sermons, was translated into German and pub- 
lished finder the title Rdigi&n ohne Dogma. Besides 


many articles for cyclopaedias, especially for Johnson's 
Universal Cyclopedia, he published* in book form, The 
Life of N. A. Staples (1870); A Book of Poems 
i 1875) ; The Book f To-day (1878) ; The Faith of 
Reason (1879); Same Aspects of Religion (18791; 
The Man Jesus (1881); Belief and Life (1881); 
Origin and Destiny (1883); In Nasoreth T<ncn 
(1884) ; A Daring Faith (1885) " A Legend of Good 
Poets (1886) ; The Power of an Endless Life (iSBK) ; 
The Revelation of God (1890) ; Life of Theodore 
Parker (1900). 


O soul of mine, how few and short the years 
Ere thou shalt go the way of all thy kind. 
And here no more thy joy or sorrow find 

At any fount of happiness or tears! 

Yea, and how soon shall all that thee endears 
To any heart that beats with love for thee 
Be everywhere forgotten utterly, 

With all thy loves and joys, and hopes and fearsi 
But my soul, because these things are so 

Be thou not cheated of to-day's delight 

When the night cometh, it may well be night ; 
Now it is day, See that no minute's glow 

Of all the shining hoars unheeded goes, 

No fount of rightful joy by tfiee tmtasted flows. 


The curv&d strand of cool, gray sand 

Lies like a sickle by tlie sea ; 
The tide is low, but, soft and slow, 

Is creeping higher tip the lea, 

The beach-birds fleet, with twinkling feet. 

Hurry and scurry to and fro; 
And sip and chat of this and that 

Wfoidi you and I may never taow. 


The runlets gay, that haste away, 
To meet each snowy-bosomed crest 

Enrich the shore with fleeting store 
Of art-defying arabesque. 

Each higher wave doth touch and lave 
A million pebbles smooth and bright; 

Straightway they grow a beauteous show, 
With hues unknown before bedight 

High tip the beach, far out of reach 
Of common tides that ebb and flow, 

The drift-wood's heap doth record keep 
Of storms that perished long ago. 

Nor storms alone: I hear the moan 
Of voices choked by dashing brine, 

When sunken rock or tempest shock 
Crushed the good vessel's oaken spine. 

Where ends the beach the cliffs upreach, 
Their lichen-wrinkled foreheads old; 

And here I rest while all the west 
Grows brighter with the sunset's gold 

Far out at sea the ships that flee 
Along the dim horizon's line, 

Their sails unfold like cloths of gold, 
Transfigured by that light divine. 

A calm more deep as 'twere asleep, 
Upon the weary ocean falls; 

So low it sighs, its murmur dies, 
While shrill the boding cricket calls 

Oli peace and rest! upon the breast 
Of God himself I seem to lean; 

No break, no b&r of sun or star, 
Just God ai&d I, with naught between. 


Oh when some day in vain I pray 
For days like this to come again, 

I shall rejoice with heart and voice 
That one such day has ever been. 

CHALMERS, THOMAS, a Scottish clergyman; 
born at Anstruther, March 17, 1780; died at 
Edinburgh, May 31, 1847. At a very early 
age he entered the University of St. Andrews, where 
he distinguished himself especially in mathematics and 
the natural sciences. He zealously continued his stud- 
ies in these departments at the University of Edin- 
burgh, and after his ordination and appointment to the 
parish of Kilmany in 1803, I n *8o8 he published an 
Inquiry into the Extent and Stability of National Re- 
sources. Not long afterward he was invited by Dr. 
Brewster, the editor of the Edinburgh Ranew, to write 
the article on " Christianity " for that publication. 
His studies for this article brought about an entire 
change in his religious character. Henceforth he was 
not merely a Christian moralist, but an earnest evangel- 
ical preacher. 

In 1815 he was called to the ministry of the Tron 
Church, Glasgow. Here he delivered a series of 
Astronomical Discourses, which were published early 
in 1817, and before the close of the year passed 
through nine editions. In 1819 he became minister of 
the large and poor parish of St. John's. There were 
about 2,000 families in the parish, mostly consisting of 
factory-workers and common laborers, of whom not 
more than 800 families were connected with any Qiris- 


tian congregation. His labors not merely as a 
preacher but as actual ** overseer " of this large parish 
were enormous, and in every way most successful. 
For one thing, the pauper expenditure of the parish 
was steadily reduced from 1400 to 280 a year. At 
the commencement of this ministry Chalmers began 
a series of quarterly pamphlets on The Christian and 
Chnc Economy of Large T&wns, devoted to the eluci- 
dation of the religious and civic reforms which he was 
carrying on. 

His health began to decline under the pressure of his 
manifold labors, and in 1823 he accepted the offer (the 
seventh of the kind which he had received during 
eight years) of the chair of Moral Philosophy in the 
University of St Andrews. In 1827 he wrote his 
treatise on Th Use and Abuse of Literary and Ecclesi- 
a$tkd Endowments* In 1828 he was transferred to 
the chair of Theology in the University of Edinburgh ; 
and soon began the preparation of an extended trea- 
tise on Political Economy, which was published in 
1832, He was now invited to write one of the series 
of the "Bridgewater Treatises." He chose for his 
subject The Adaptation of External Nature to the 
Moral and Intellectual Constitution of Man. This vol- 
ume was published in 1833, and is conceded to be one 
Of die ablest of those famous treatises. 

Df Chalmers had hitherto taken no prominent part 
m the general affairs of the Church of Scotland; but 
was mm forced to the front by the death of Dr, 
Thomson, who had long been the acknow- 
ledged leader of the " Evangelical " party, which had 
gained &e wcm&wy in that Church. Into the de- 
tails of the contest which ensued in the General As- 


sembly, and lasted nearly ten years, we need not here 
enter. The upshot of all was, that in 1843, ^ 0tir hnn- 
dred and seventy clergymen formally withdrew from 
the General Assembly, and constituted themselves Into 
the " Free Church of Scotland/' Dr. Chalmers being 
elected as their first " Moderator," or presiding officer. 
For a couple of years he was vigorously engaged in 
organizing the Free Church movement ; but he grad- 
ually withdrew from the work, occupying himself with 
his duties as principal of the Free Church College, and 
perfecting his Institutes of Theology, a work which 
was not published until after his death which occurred 
suddenly. He had bidden his family good-night on the 
Sabbath evening of May 30, 1847, being apparently in 
his usual health. When his room was entered the 
next morning, he was found dead in his bed, with IM> 
indication that there had been any painful struggle. 
The body was already cold, indicating that death had 
occurred some hours previously. 

The Works of Chalmers were carefully edited by his 
son-in-law, the Rev. William Harnia* They comprise 
(in the American edition) four volumes, besides a 
volume of Correspondence. In addition to these there 
are nine volumes of " Posthumous Works/* cotitaiaing 
Daily Scripture Readings; St&b&th Scriptmve Read* 
ings; Institutes of Theology; Prelections on Butler's 
Analogy, and a volume of Sermons f>reached from 
1798 to 1847. 


Wben consciences pronounce differently of the same 
action, it is for the most part, or rather, it is almost al- 
ways, because understandings view it differently. It Is 
either because the witroversiaEsts are regarding it witSt 


unequal degrees of knowledge, or each through the me- 
dium of his own partialities. The consciences of all 
would come forth with the same moral decision, were 
all equally enlightened in the circumstances, or in the 
essential relations and consequences of the deed in ques- 
tion; and, what is just as essential to this uniformity 
of judgment, were all viewing it fairly, as well as fully. 
It matters not, whether it be ignorantly or wilfully, that 
each is looking at this deed but in the one aspect or 
in the one relation that is favorable to his own peculiar 
sentiment. In either case, the diversity of judgment on 
the moral qualities of the same action is just as little 
to be wondered at as a similar diversity on the material 
qualities of die same object should any of the spec- 
tators labor under an involuntary defect of vision, or 
voluntarily persist in shutting or in averting his eyes. 
It is thus that a quarrel has well been termed a " mis- 
tifider&tanding/' in which each of the combatants may 
consider, and often honestly consider, himself to be in 
tlse right; and that on reading the hostile memorials of 
two parties in a litigation, we can perceive no difference 
In their moral principles, but only in their historical 
statements; and that in the public manifestoes of nations 
when entering upon war, we can discover no trace of a 
contrariety of conflict in their ethical systems, but only 
in their differently put or differently colored representa- 
tions of fact ; all proving that, with the utmost diversity 
of judgment among men respecting the moral qualities 
of the same thing, there may be a perfect identity of 
structure in their moral organs notwithstanding; and 
that Conscience, true to her office, needs but to be rightly 
informed that she may speak the same language, and 
give forth the same lessons in all the countries of the 

It is this which explains the moral peculiarities of dif- 
ferent nations. It is not that justice, humanity, and 
gratitude are not the canonized virtues of every region ; 
or that falsehood, cruelty, and fraud would not, in their 
abstract and tmassociated nakedness, be viewed as the 
objects of moral antipathy and rebuke. It is that, in 


one and the same material action, when looked to in all 
the lights of which, whether in reality or by the power 
of imagination, it is susceptible, various, nay, opfx>&ite, 
moral characteristics may be bknded; and that while 
one people look to the good only without the evil, 
another may look to the evil only without the good. 
And thus the identical acts which in one nation are the 
subjects of a most reverent and religious observance 
may, in another, be regarded with a shuddering sense 
of abomination and horror. And this, not because of 
any difference in what may be termed the moral cate- 
gories of the two peoples, nor because, if moral princi- 
ples in their unmixed generality were offered to the 
contemplation of either, either would call evil good or 
good evil When theft was publicly honored and re- 
warded in Sparta, it was not because theft in itself 
was reckoned a good thing; but because patriotism, and 
dexterity, and those services by which the interests of 
patriotism might be supported, were reckoned to be good 
things. When the natives of Hindoostan assemble with 
delight around the agonies of a human sacrifice, it is 
not because they hold it good to rejoice In a spectack 
of pain; but because they hold it good to rejoice in a 
spectacle of heroic devotion to ttie memory of tlie dead. 
When parents are exposed, or children are destroyed, 
it is not because it is deemed to be rigfet Uiat tliere 
should be the infliction of misery for its own sake; kit 
because it is deemed to be right that tfie wretelieditess 
of old age should be curtailed, or that the world should 
be saved from the miseries of an overcrowded species. 
In a word, in the very worst of these anomalies some 
form of good may be detected, which has led to their 
establishment; and still some universal and undoubted 
principle of morality, however penrerted or misapplied, 
can be alleged in vindication of them. A people may be 
deluded by their ignorance; or misguided by their su- 
perstition; or, not only hurried into wrong deeds, but 
even fostered into wrong sentiments, under the influence 
of that cupidity or revenge which are so perpetually 
operating in the warfare of savage or demi-savage a*- 


tions. Yet, in spite of the topical moralities to which 
these have given birth, there is an unquestioned and 
universal morality notwithstanding. And in every case, 
where the moral sense is unfettered by these associa- 
tions, and the judgment is uncramped, either by the par- 
tialities of interest or by the inveteracy of national cus- 
toms which habit and antiquity have rendered sacred, 
Conscience is found to speak the same language, nor, 
to the remotest ends of the world, is there a country 
or an island where the same uniform and consistent voice 
is not heard from her. 

Let the mists of ignorance and passion and artificial 
education be only cleared away; and the moral at- 
tributes of goodness and righteousness and truth be seen 
sndistorted, and in their own proper guise; and there 
is not a heart or a conscience throughout earth's teem- 
ing population which could refuse to do them homage. 
And it is precisely because the Father of the human 
family has given such hearts and conscience to all His 
children that we infer these to be the very sanctities of 
the God&ead, the very attributes of His own primeval 
nature* T&# Bridgew&ter Treatise. 


Though tiie earth were to be burnt up, though the 
trumpet of its dissolution were sounded, though yon sky 
were to pass away as a scroll, and every visible glory 
which the inger of Divinity has inscribed on it were 
aetiogtii&Iied forever an event so awful to us> and to 
every work! in otir vicinity, by which so many suns 
would le extinguished, and so many varied scenes of 
life a&d population would rush into forgetfulness what 
is it in the high scale of the Almighty's workmanship? 
m aiere sfered, which, though scattered into nothing, would 
leave die universe of God one entire scene of greatness 
and of majesty. Though tlie earth and the heavens were 
t disappear, tliere are other worlds which roll afar; 
the igttt of oflier sum shines upon them; and the sky 
which mantles $m& is garnished with other stars. Is 
it presumption to say tfeat the moral world extends to 


these distant ami unknown regions? that they arc occu- 
pied with people? that the chanties of home and of 
ndghborhood flourish there? that the praises of God are 
there lifted up, and his goodness rejoiced in? that tliere 
piety has its temples and its offerings? and the richness 
of the Divine attributes is there felt and admired by in- 
telligent worshippers? 

And what is this world in the immensity which teems 
with them, and what are they who occupy it? The 
universe at large would suffer as little in its splendor 
and variety by the destruction of our planet as the verdure 
and sublime magnitude of a forest would suffer by tfee 
fall of a single leaf. Hie leaf quivers on the branch 
which supports it. It lies at the mercy of the slightest 
accident. A breath of wind tears it from its stem, and 
it lights on the stream of water which passes under- 
neath. In a moment of time the life which we know 
by the microscope it teems with is extinguished ; and 
an occurrence so insignificant in the eye of man, and CHI 
the scale of his observation, carries in it to the myriads 
which people this littk leaf an event as terrible and as 
decisive as the destruction of a world Now, cm ttie 
grand scale of the universe, we, the occupiers of this 
ball, which performs its littk round among the smas and 
tfie systems that astronomy has unfoided wt may feel 
the same littleness and the same insecurity. We differ 
from the leaf only in this circumstance, that it would 
require the operation of greater elements to destroy us. 
But these elements exist The fire which rages witihra 
may lift its devouring energy to the surface of our 
planet, ami transform it into one wkk and wasting vol- 
cano. The sudden formation of elastic matter in the 
bowels of the earth and it lies within the agency of 
known substances to accompli sli Hits fumy explode it 
into fragments. The exhalation of noxious air from 
below may impart a virulence to the air that is around 
us; it may affect the delicate proportion of its ingredi- 
ents; aikl the whole of animated nature may wither and 
die under the malignity of a tainted atmosphere, A 
blazing comet may cross this fated planet in its orbit, 


and realize all the terrors which superstition has con- 
ceived of it We cannot anticipate with precision the 
consequences of an event which every astronomer must 
know to lie within the limits of chance and probability, 
It may hurry our globe toward the sun, or drag it to 
the outer regions of the planetary system, or give it a 
new axis of revolution and the effect, which I shall 
simply announce without explaining it, would be to 
change the place of the ocean, and bring another mighty 
flood upon our islands and continents, 

These are changes which may happen in a single in- 
stant of time, and against which nothing known in the 
present system of things provides us with any security. 

Now it is this littleness and this insecurity which 
make the protection of the Almighty so dear to us, and 
bring with such emphasis to every pious bosom the holy 
lessons of humility and gratitude. The God who sit- 
teth above, and presides in high authority over all worlds, 
is mindful of man; and though at this moment His 
energy is felt in the remotest provinces of creation, we 
may feel the same security in His providence as if we 
Were the objects of His undivided care. 

It is not for us to bring our minds up to this mysteri- 
ous agency. But such is the incomprehensible fact, that 
the same being whose eye is abroad over the whole uni- 
verse gives vegetation to every blade of grass, and motion 
to every particle of blood which circulates through the 
veins of the minutest animal; that though His mind 
takes into His comprehensive grasp immensity and all 
its wonders, I am as much known to Him as if I were 
the single object of his attention; that He marks all 
my thoughts; that He gives birth to every feeling and 
every movement within me; and that, with an exercise 
of power which I can neither describe nor comprehend, 
tibe sasne God who sits in the highest heaven, and reigns 
over the glories of the firmament, is at my right hand, 
to gime me every breath which I draw, and every com- 
fort which I enjoy. The Bridgeware? Treatise. 


fHAMBERS, ROBERT, a Scottish publisher and 
author; bom at Peebles, July 10, 1802; died 
at St Andrews, March 17, 1871. While he 
was a boy his father removed to Edinburgh, where he 
was placed in a classical school, with the design of 
giving him a university education ; but the straitened 
circumstances of his parents prevented the execution 
of this plan, and he was compelled to earn his liveli- 
hood. At the age of sixteen he established himself as 
a second-hand bookseller. After a few years he en- 
tered into partnership with his elder brother, William 
Chambers, who had engaged in the same business. In 
1832 the brothers began the publication of Chamber /s 
Journal, a periodical which is still continued. At irst 
Robert Chambers was merely a cootritwtor to the 
Journal; but he soon became joint-editor. The broth- 
ers founded a great publishing establishment, in which 
they were so closely connected that it is not easy to 
assign to each his special share in the conduct of it ; 
but in general William acted as the business manager, 
and Robert as the literary conductor. The works of 
Robert Chambers are very numerous. Among them 
are Traditions of Edinburgh; A History &f tk$ J?fW~ 
lion of 1745; Domestic Annals of Swtlmd; Bi&gr&phy 
of Distinguished Scotchmen; Life md Writings of 
Burns; Ancient Sea-Mwgins, and Tk$ B&$k of Days, 
He was also the principal compiler of Chambers's Cy- 
dop&dia of English Literature. 

From Chamber's Rebftiwn of 17^5 we give a char- 
acteristic passage: 



It was not till the cannonade had continued nearly 
half an hour, and the Highlanders had seen many of 
their kindred stretched upon the heath, that Charles at 
last gave way to the necessity of ordering a charge. 
The aid-de-camp intrusted to carry his message to the 
Lieutenant-General a youth of the name of Mac- 
Lauchlan was killed by a cannon-ball before he reached 
the first line; but the general sentiment of the army 
as reported to Lord George Murray, supplied the want; 
and that general took it upon him to order an attack, 
without Charles's permission having been communicated. 
Lord George had scarcely determined upon ordering a 
general movement, when the Macintoshes a brave and 
devoted clan, though never before engaged in action 
unable any longer to brook the unavenged slaughter made 
by ttie cannon, broke from the centre of the line, and 
rushed forward through smoke and snow to mingle with 
the enemy. The Atholemen, Camerons, Stewarts, Fras- 
ers, and MacLeans, then also went on, Lord George 
Murray heading them with ttiat rash bravery for which 
he was so remarkable. Thus, in the course of one or 
two minutes, the charge was general along the whole 
line ; except at the left extremity, where the MacDonalds, 
dissatisfied with their position, hesitated to engage. 

It was the emphatic custom of the Highlanders, be- 
fore an onset, to scrug their bonnets that is, to pull 
their little blue caps down over their brows, so as to 
insure them against falling off in the ensuing melL 
Never, perhaps, was this motion performed- with so much 
emphasis as on the present occasion, when every man's 
foretiead burned with the desire to revenge some dear 
friend who had fallen a victim to the murderous artil- 
lery. A Lowland gentleman, who was in the line, and 
wlio survived until a late period, used always, in relat- 
ing Hie events of Craffoden, to comment, with a feeling 
$ofnetfitng like awe, upon the terrific and more than nat- 
ural expre^km of rage, which glowed on every face and 
gleamed in every eye, as he surveyed the extended line 


at this moment It was an exhibition of mighty and 
all-engrossing passion, never to be forgotten by the be- 

The action and event of the onset were, throughout, 
quite as dreadful as the mental emotion which urged it. 
Notwithstanding that the three files of the front line of 
English poured forth their incessant fire of musketry 
notwithstanding the flank fire of Wolfe's regiment 
onward, onward went the headlong Highlanders, fling- 
ing themselves into, rather than rushing upon the lines 
of the enemy, which, indeed, they did not see for smoke 
till involved among their weapons. All that courage- 
all that despair could do was done. They did not fight 
like living or reasoning creatures, but like machines un- 
der the influence of some uncontrollable principle of 
action. The howl of the advance the scream of the 
onset the thunders of the musketry and the din of the 
trumpets and drums confounded one sense; while the 
flash of the firearms, and the glitter of the brandished 
broadswords, dazzled and bewildered another. It was a 
moment of dreadful and agonizing suspense but only 
a moment; for the whirlwind does not reap the forest 
with greater rapidity than the Highlanders cleared the 
line. They swept through and over that frail barrier, 
almost as easily and instantaneously as the bounding 
cavalcade brushes through the morning labors of the 
gossamer which stretch across its path; not, however, 
with the same unconsciousness of the event Almost 
every man in their front rank, chief and gentleman, fell 
before the deadly weapons which they had braved; and 
although the enemy gave way, it was not till every bay- 
onet was bent and bloody with the strife. When the 
first line had been completely swept aside, the assailants 
continued their impetuous advance till they came near 
the second, when, being almost annihilated by a profuse 
and well-directed fire, the shattered remains of what had 
been but an hour before, a numerous and confident force, 
at last submitted to destiny, by giving way and flying. 
Still a few rushed on, resolved rather to die than thus 
forfeit their well-acquired and dearly estimated honor. 
VOL. V. 19 


They rushed on but not a man ever came in contact 
with the enemy. The last survivor perished as he reached 
the points of the bayonets. The Rebellion of 1745. 

A curious episode in the literary career of Robert 
Chambers was the writing and publication of the 
Vestiges of the Natural History of Creation. The 
book appeared anonymously in 1844, and at once 
aroused general attention. Edition after edition was 
called for within the ensuing ten years. Extraordinary 
precautions had been taken to prevents its authorship 
from being known. These were so successful that the 
1877 edition of the Encyclopedia Britannic a says: 
" His knowledge of geology was one of the principal 
grounds on which the authorship of the celebrated 
anonymous work, the Vestiges of Creation, was very 
generally attributed to Robert Chambers. As, how- 
ever, neither he himself nor anyone entitled to speak 
for him ever acknowledged the work, its authorship 
remains a mystery." It was not, indeed, until 1884 
that the mystery of the authorship was cleared up. 
In that year Alexander Ireland, one of the four 
persons to whom the secret had been confided, pub- 
lished a new edition (the twelfth), in which he gives 
all the details of the composition and publication of 
the work, together with the reasons which led the 
author to withhold his name from it 


"Now," continues Mr. Ireland, "as probably the old- 
est survivor of his intimate associates, and cherishing, 
as I fondly do, the recollection of his valued and irre- 
placeable friendship, it seems to me to be a duty to the 
memory of Robert Chambers that I should place on 
record, while it is still in my power to do so, the honor- 


able fact that to his genius the world was indebted for 
that remarkable work, which in this country was the 
immediate forerunner of Darwin's theory of Evolution. 
The Vestiges is a work conceived and executed in a rev- 
erent and truly religious spirit, the author attempting 
to set forth, in befitting language, the system of law or- 
dained by the Almighty, whereby all things, from the 
beginning of time, and throughout illimitable space, have 
been and are connected and bound together as the orderly 
manifestations of his Divine Power." 


The proposition determined on after much considera- 
tion is that the several series of animated beings, from 
the simplest and oldest up to the highest and most re- 
cent, are, under the providence of God, the results, first, 
of an impulse which has been imparted to the forms 
of life, advancing them, in definite times, by generation, 
through grades of organization terminating in the high- 
est dicotyledons and vertebrata; these grades being few 
in number and generally marked by intervals of organic 
character, which we find to be a practical difficulty in 
ascertaining affinities; second, of another Impulse con- 
nected with the vital forces, tending in the course of 
generations to modify organic structures in accordance 
with external circumstances as food, the nature of the 
habitat and the meteoric agencies these being the 
" adaptations " of the natural theologian. We may con- 
template these phenomena as ordained to take place in 
every situation and time, where and when the requisite 
materials and conditions are presented; in other orbs 
as well as in this; in any geographical area of this globe 
which may at any time arise : observing only the varia- 
tions due to difference of materials and of conditions. 

The nucleated vesicle is contemplated as the funda- 
mental form of all organizations; the meeting-point be- 
tween the inorganic and the organic; the end of the 
mineral and beginning of the vegetable and animal king- 
doms, which thence start in different directions, but in 
a general parallelism and analogy. This nucleated vesick 


is itself a type of mature and independent being, as well 
as the starting-point of the foetal process of every higher 
individual in creation both animal and vegetable. We 
have seen that the proximate principles, or first organic 
combinations, being held and in some instances proved 

as producible by the chemist, an operation which would 
produce in these the nucleated vesicle, is all that is want- 
ing effectually to bridge over the space between the in- 
organic and the organic. Remembering these things, it 
does not seem, after all, a very immoderate hypothesis 
that a chemico-electric operation, by 'which the germinal 
vesicles were produced, was the first phenomena in or- 
ganic creation, and that the second was an advance of 
these through a succession of higher grades and a variety 
of modifications in accordance with laws of the same ab- 
solute nature as those by which the Almighty rules the 
physical department of Nature. Vestiges. 


The idea that any of the lower animals were con- 
cerned in the origin of Man is usually scouted by un- 
reflecting persons as derogatory to human dignity. It 
might in the same way seem a degradation to a full-grown 
individual to contemplate him as having once been a 
helpless babe upon his mother's knee; or to trace him 
further back, and regard him as an embryo wherein no 
human lineaments had as yet appeared. All organic 
things are essentially progressive: there would be no 
end to perplexity and mis judgment if we were to take 
up each at its maturity, and hold it as made ridiculous 
by the consideration of what it was in its earlier stages : 

The grandeur of the oak, for instance, lost in the 
idea of its once having been an acorn; the nobleness 
of a Washington, or the intense intellectual force of a 
Bonaparte, sunk in recollections of their schoolboy days. 
In nature much will appear humble by contrast; but to 
a healthy m i n d nothing will appear contemptible. When 
we look in a right spirit into her mysteries, we discover 
only the manner in which her master is pleased to work, 
and then all appears beautiful exceedingly. Thus it has 


never occurred to any physiologist to love or admire his 
race less, because he knew that the human organiza- 
tion has to pass through stages of reproduction, the 
earlier of which are not to be distinguished from 
those of the invertebrate animal. So need it never be 
imputed as a degradation to mankind that the force and 
tendencies of their illustrious nature once lay imperfectly 
developed in some humble form of being. Vestiges. 


Common observation shows a great general superior- 
ity of the human mind over that of the inferior ani- 
mals. Man's mind is almost infinite in device; it ranges 
over all the world; it forms the most wonderful com- 
binations; it seeks back into the past, and stretches for- 
ward into the future; while the animals generally ap- 
pear to have a narrow range of thought and action. 
But so also has an infant but a limited range, yet it 
is mind which works there, as well as in the most ac- 
complished adults. The difference between mind in the 
lower animals and in man is a difference in degree only; 
it is not a specific difference. All who have studied ani- 
mals by actual observation, and even those who have 
given a candid attention to the subject in books, must 
attain more or less clear convictions of this truth, not- 
withstanding the obscurity which prejudice may have 

We see animals capable of affection, jealousy, envy; 
we see them quarrel, and conduct quarrels in the very 
manner pursued by the ruder and less educated of our 
own race. We see them liable to flattery, inflated with 
pride, and dejected by shame. We see them as tender 
to their young as human parents are, and as faithful to 
a trust as the most conscientious of human servants. 
The horse is startled by marvellous objects, as a man is. 
The dog and many others show tenacious memory. The 
dog also proves himself possessed of imagination by the 
act of dreaming. Horses finding themselves in want of 
a shoe, have of their own accord gone to a farrier's 


shop, where they were shod before. Cats closed up in 
rooms, will endeavor to obtain their liberation by pulling 
a latch or ringing a bell. A monkey, wishing to get into 
a peculiar tree, and seeing a dangerous snake at the 
bottom of it, watched for hours till he found the reptile 
for a moment off its guard ; he sprang upon it, and, seiz- 
ing it by the neck, bruised its head to pieces against a 
stone ; after which he quietly ascended the tree. We can 
hardly doubt that the animal seized and bruised the head, 
because he knew or judged there was danger in that 
part. It has several times been observed that in a field 
of cattle, when one or two were mischievous, and per- 
sisted long in annoying or tyrannizing over the rest, the 
herd, to all appearance, consulted, and then, making a 
united effort, drove the troublers off the ground. The 
members of a rookery have also been observed to take 
turns in supplying the needs of a family reduced to or- 
phanhood. All of these are acts of reason, in no respect 
different from similar acts of men. Moreover, although 
there is no heritage of accumulated knowledge amongst 
the lower animals as there is amongst us, they are in 
some degree susceptible to those modifications of natural 
character and capable of those accomplishments which 
we call education. 

The taming and domestication of animals, and the 
changes thus produced upon their nature in the course 
of generations, are results identical with civilization 
amongst ourselves; and the quiet, servile steer is prob- 
ably as unlike the original wild cattle of this country as 
the English gentleman of the present day is unlike the 
rude baron of the age of King John. Between a young, 
unbroken horse and a trained one, there is, again, all 
the difference which exists between a wild youth, reared 
at his own discretion in the country, and the same per- 
son when he has been toned down by long exposure to 
the influences of refined city society. Of extensive com- 
binations of thought, we have no reason to believe that 
any animals are capable and yet most of us must feel 
the force of Sir Walter Scott's remark, that there was 
scarcely anything which he would not believe of a dog. 



There is a curious result of education in certain animals, 
namely, that habits to which they have been trained in 
some instances become hereditary. . . . This hered- 
itariness of specific habits suggests a relation to that 
form of psychological manifestation usually called in- 
stinct; but instinct is only another term for mind, or is 
mind in a peculiar state of development; and though 
the fact were otherwise, it could not affect the conclu- 
sion, that manifestations such as have been enumerated 
are mainly intellectual manifestations, not to be distin- 
guished as such from those of human beings. Vestiges. 

artist and novelist; born at Brooklyn, N. Y., 
May 26, 1865. He studied art at Julian's in 
Paris, and also at the Ecole des Beaux Arts from 1886 
to 1893. He first exhibited in the Salon of 1889. For 
some years he made illustrations for Life and Truth, 
tut after the publication of his first novel In the Quar- 
ter (1893), he turned his attention mostly to story 
writing. His later novels include The King in Yellow 
(1893); The Red Republic (1894); A King and a 
Few Dukes (1894) ; The Maker of Moons (1895) ; 
Oliver Lock (1896) ; The Mystery of Choice (1896) ; 
With the Band, verse (1897) ; Lorraine (1897) ; Ashes 
of Empire (1897) ; The Haunts of Men (1898) ; The 
Cambric Mask (1899) ; Outsiders (1899) ; The Con- 
spirators (1900); Cardigan (1901); Maids of Para- 
dise (1902) ; A Young Man in a Hurry (1904), and 
lole (1905). He has also written three volumes of 
descriptive essays: Outdoorland (1903); Orchard- 
land (1903); and Riverland (1904). Several of Ms 


novels have been dramatized. We select several strik- 
ing passages from A King and a Few Dukes. (Copy- 
right by G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS, 1896.) 


Dawn was silvering the dew-tipped tree-tops as we 
shook out our bridles, and galloped on* The clean, fresh 
air grew sweet with the fragrance of unclosing blossoms ; 
birds stirred m every hedge, twittering sleepily; a great 
sombre owl sailed from a crooked branch overhead, and 
floated away toward the darker forest depths. Along the 
road little pools of water grew pale and then pink as the 
east brightened, and, in the hush of early morning, a dis- 
tant cock-crow came faintly to our ears. 

Silently, close together, we flew along, our horses 
striding easily, manes, forelocks, and tails streaming 
straight out, flanks rising and falling without distress. 
And now, far ahead in the morning haze, a sweet bell 
tolled, and I heard a dog barking from the nearer hill- 

The solemn cattle stared at us as we passed through a 
farm-yard, the turkeys gobbled silly comments from their 
thistle patch, and a very small puppy rushed out at us, 
and chased us nearly a rod, barking until I feared for his 
tender throat. 

Houses crowded along the roadside now, low grey cot- 
tages from the chimneys of which lazily curled the morn- 
ing smoke. One or two heavy featured Taximbourgeois, 
carrying primitive scythes and wooden rakes, stepped 
aside to give us way, bidding us an apathetic "good 
morning I " 

All at once a tower loomed up from the haze across 
the meadows, a heavy, forbidding tower, squatty and 

"Sdhloss Lauterschnapps ! " panted Sylvia, "we are 
there I " A King and A Few Dukes. (By permission of 



" I am the Princess Sylvia of Marmora and sister to 
the King," she said, " and I am not accustomed to justify 
myself to anybody. Yet now it is my pleasure to justify 
myself to you, to you a foreigner, who bring to my 
country the curse of the sword ; who ride into my land 
at the head of a fierce mercenary army to force upon 
my people what my people have repudiated by force. 
What is it to you that cottages are burned and wretched 
peasants lose their all? What is it to you that a peaceful 
people are harried like starving wolves? Do you know 
what war is? Do you care? Do you think it is all hel- 
mets and horses and gorgeous trappings? Have you ever 
seen a cannon wheel crush the breast of a dying man? 
Have you ever seen your black shells rip a woman into 
shreds of quivering flesh? You who eat and drink when 
you will, who have but to speak, and satisfy your hunger, 
do you know what starvation is? Have you seen a city 
full of tottering skeletons, scraping the filth from gutter 
refuse to find a bone ? That is war ! " A King and a 
Few Dukes. (By permission of G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS.) 


Old friend, I dream again; the skies are blue, 
The sounds of rippling rivers fill my ears, 
And borne upon the current of past years 
My thoughts are drifting back again to you. 

Again I lie beside the woodland stream 
Where golden grasses glisten splashed with spray. 
Where willows whiten in the breath of May, 
Where alder grey and slender birches gleam, 

I watch the crystal current flow and flow, 
Now silver, brimming in a placid pool, 
Now lost in hidden hazel thickets cool, 
Now on the sedges* edges lapping low. 


The painted trout come sailing, sailing by, 
Stemming the idle current of my dream, 
And sunbeams steal between green leaves and gleam 
On pebbled shallows, mirrors of the sky. 

So dream with me, old friend, beside the fire, 
Here where our shadows tremble on the wall, 
Where ashes rustle as the embers fall ; 
And peace shall fall on us and end desire. 

From A King and a Few Dukes. 
(By permission of G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS.) 

|HAMISSO, ADELBERT VON, a German poet; 
born at the Castle of Boncourt, Champagne, 
January 30, 1781 ; died at Berlin, August 21, 
1838. He came of a good family of Champagne, who, 
at the outbreak of the French Revolution, fled to Prus- 
sia, where, in 1796, Adelbert became one of the 
Queen's pages. He afterward obtained a commission 
in the army, which he resigned in 1806. He had ap- 
plied himself with ardor to the study of German, and 
on his release from the army joined in the publication 
of an Almanac of the Muses. During a visit to Ma- 
dame de Stael he began the study of botany, which 
he pursued with such success that in 1815 he was 
appointed botanist of the expedition under Kotzebue 
for the circumnavigation of the globe. On his return 
he became custodian of the Botanical Gardens of Ber- 
lin, where he spent the remainder of his life. Chamisso 
wrote numerous poems, among which are The Lion's 
Bride; Retribution; Woman's Love and Life; and 
Cousin Anselmo. He is best known by a prose narra- 


tive, Peter SchlemM, the man who lost his shadow, 
which was first published in 1814. 


The sun now began to shine more intensely, and to 
annoy the ladies. The lovely Fanny carelessly addressed 
the gray man, whom, as far as I know, nobody had ad- 
dressed before, with the frivolous question : " Had he a 
marquee?" He answered with a low reverence, as if 
feeling an undeserved honor had been done him; his 
hand was already in his pocket, from which I perceived 
canvas, bars, ropes, iron-work everything, in a word, 
belonging to a most sumptuous tent, issuing forth. The 
young men helped to erect it; it covered the whole ex- 
tent of the carpet, and no one appeared to consider all 
this as at all extraordinary. If my mind was confused, 
nay terrified, with these proceedings, how was I over- 
powered from him. At last I could bear t it no longer, 
I determined to steal away from the company, and this 
was easy for one who had acted a part so little conspicu- 
ous. I wished to hasten back to the city, and to re- 
turn in pursuit of my fortune the following morning to 
Mr. Jones, and if I could muster up courage enough, to 
inquire something about the extraordinary gray man. 
Oh, had I been thus privileged to escape ! 

I had hastily glided through the rose-grove, descended 
the hill, and found myself on a wide grassplot, when, 
alarmed with the apprehension of being discovered wan- 
dering from the beaten path, I looked around me with 
inquiring apprehension. How was I startled when I saw 
the old man in the gray coat behind, and when the next 
breathed wish brought from his pocket three riding- 
horses. I tell you, three great and noble steeds, with 
saddles and appurtenances! Imagine for a moment, I 
pray you, three saddled horses from the same pocket 
which had before produced a pocket-book, a telescope, 
an ornamented carpet twenty paces long and ten broad, 
a pleasure- tent of the same size, with bars and iron- 
work ! If I did not solemnly assure you that I had seen 


it with my own eyes, you would certainly doubt the 

Though there was so much of embarrassment and 
humility in the man, and he excited so little attention, 
yet his appearance to me had in it something so ap- 
palling, that I was not able to turn my eyes. Advancing 
towards me, he immediately took off his hat, and bowed 
to me more profoundly than any one had ever done 
before. It was clear he wished to address me, and with- 
out extreme rudeness I could not avoid him. I, in my 
turn, uncovered myself, made my obeisance, and stood 
still with bare head, in the sunshine, as if rooted there. 
I shook with terror while I saw him approach; I felt 
like a bird fascinated by a rattle-snake. He appeared 
sadly perplexed, kept his eyes on the ground, made sev- 
eral bows, approached nearer, and with a low and trem- 
bling voice, as if he were asking alms, thus accosted 

" Will the gentleman forgive the intrusion of one who 
has stopped him in this unusual way? I have a request 
to make, but pray pardon " 

"In the name of heaven, Sir!" I cried out in my 
anguish, " what can I do for one who " 

We both started back, and methought both blushed 
deeply. After a momentary silence, he again began: 

" During the short time when I enjoyed the happiness 
of being near you, I observed, Sir will you allow me to 
say so I observed, with unutterable admiration, the 
beautiful shadow in the sun, which, with a certain noble 
contempt, and perhaps without being aware of it, you 
threw off from your feet; forgive me this, I confess too 
daring intrusion; but should you be inclined to transfer 
it to me?" 

He was silent, and my head turned round like a water- 
wheel. What could I make of this singular proposal for 
disposing of my shadow? "He is crazy!" thought I; 
and with an altered tone, yet more forcible, as contrasted 
with the humility of his own, I replied: 

"How is this, good friend? Is not your own shadow 


enough for you? This seems to me a whimsical sort of 
bargain indeed." 

He began again. " I have in my pocket many mat- 
ters which might be not quite unacceptable to the gen- 
tleman; for this invaluable shadow I deem any price too 

A chill came over me. I remembered what I had seen, 
and knew not how to address him whom I had just ven- 
tured to call my good friend. I spoke again, and as- 
sumed an extraordinary courtesy to set matters in order. 

'* Pardon, Sir, pardon your most humble servant I 
do not quite understand your meaning; how can my 
shadow " 

He interrupted me. "I only beg your permission to 
be allowed to lift up your noble shadow, and put it in my 
pocket: how to do it is rny own affair. As a proof of 
my gratitude for the gentleman, I leave him the choice 
of all the jewels which my pocket affords; the genuine 
divining-rods, mandrake roots, change-pennies, money- 
extractors, the napkins f Roland's Squire, and divers 
other miracle-workers a choice assortment; but all this 
is not fit for you better that you should have Fortu- 
natus's wishing-cap, restored spick-and-span new; and 
also a fortune-bag which belonged to him." 

" Fortunatus's fortune-bag ! " I exclaimed ; and great 
as had been my terror, all my senses were now enrapt- 
ured by the sound. I became dizzy, and nothing but 
double ducats seemed sparkling before my eyes* 

" Condescend, Sir, to inspect and make a trial of this 
bag." He put his hand into his pocket, and drew from 
it a moderately-sized, firmly-stitched purse of thick cor- 
dovan, with two convenient leather cords hanging to it, 
which he presented to me. I instantly dip|>ed into it, 
drew from it ten pieces of gold, and ten more, and ten 
more, and yet ten more; I stretched out my hand, 
" Done ! the bargain is made ; I give you my shadow for 
your purse." 

He grasped my hand, and knelt down behind me, and 
with wonderful dexterity I perceived him loosening my 
shadow from the ground from head to foot; he lifted 


it up; he rolled it together and folded it, and at last 
put it into his pocket. He then stood erect, bowed to 
me again, and returned back to the rose-grove. I thought 
I heard him laughing softly to himself. I held, however, 
the purse tight by it's strings the earth was sun-bright 
all around me and my senses were still wholly con- 

At last I came to myself, and hastened from a place 
where apparently I had nothing more to do. I first filled 
my pockets with gold, then firmly secured the strings 
of the purse round my neck, taking care to conceal the 
purse itself in my bosom. I left the park unnoticed, 
reached the high road, and bent my way to the town. I 
was walking thoughtfully towards the gate when I heard 
a voice behind me: 

"Holla! young Squire! holla! don't you hear?" I 
looked round an old woman was calling after me; 
"Take care, Sir, take care you have lost your 
shadow ! " " Thanks, good woman I " I threw her a 
piece of gold for her well-meant counsel, and walked 
away under the trees. 

At the gate I was again condemned to hear from the 
sentinel, "Where has the gentleman left his shadow?" 
and immediately afterward a couple of women exclaimed, 
" Good heavens ! the poor fellow has no shadow ! " I 
began to be vexed, and carefully avoided walking in the 
sun. This I could not always do: for instance, in the 
Broad Street, which I was next compelled to cross; and 
as ill-luck would have it, at the very moment when the 
boys were being released from school. A confounded 
hunch-back vagabond I see him at this moment had 
observed that I wanted a shadow. He instantly began 
to bawl out to the young tyros of the suburbs, who first 
criticised me, and then bespattered me with mud: "Re- 
spectable people are accustomed to carry their shadows 
with them when they go into the sun." 

I scattered handfuls of gold among them to divert their 
attention; and, with the assistance of some compassionate 
souls, sprang into a hackney-coach. As soon as I found 
myself alone in the rolling vehicle, I began to weep bit- 


terly. My inward emotion suggested to me, that even 
as in this world gold weighs down both merit and virtue, 
so a shadow might possibly be more valuable than gold 
itself; and that as I had sacrificed my riches to my in- 
tegrity on other occasions, so now I had given up my 
shadow for mere wealth; and what ought, what could 
become of me? Peter SchlemihL 


With the myrtle wreath decked, for the bridal arrayed; 
The keeper's young daughter, the rosy-cheeked maid, 
Steps into the den of the lion; he flies 
To the feet of his mistress, where, fawning, he lies. 

The mighty beast, once so intractible, wild 
Looks up at his mistress, so sensible, mild, 
The lovely young maiden, now melting to tears, 
Caresses the faithful one, fondles, and cheers. 

" We were in the days that are now passed away, 
Like children, fond playfellows, happy and gay, 
To each other so dear, to each other so kind, 
Far, far are the days of our childhood behind 

" How proudly thou shookest, ere we were aware, 
Thy kindly head, midst the gold waves of the hair; 
Thou seest me a woman, no more thou wilt find 
The child of the past, with its infantile mind 

" O were I the child still, O were I but free, 
To stay, my brave, honest, old fellow, with thee! 
But I must now follow, at others' commands, 
Must follow my husband to far distant lands. 

" He saw me ; it pleased him to say I was fair, 
He wooed me : 'tis done, see the wreath in my hair f 
My faithful old fellow, alas ! we must part, 
With tears in my eyes, and with grief in my heart. 


"Dost thou understand me? thou lookest so grim, 
I am calm, but thou tremblest in every limb; 
I see him advancing whom I must attend, 
So now the last kiss will I give thee, my friend ! " 

As the maiden's lips touched him, to bid him adieu. 
She felt the den tremble, it quivered anew; 
And when at the grating the youth he espied, 
Grim horror seized hold of the trembling bride. 

He stands as a guard at the entrance door, 

He lashes his tail, loud, loud is his roar ; 

She threatens, commands, and implores, but in vain, 

In anger he bars the gate, shaking his mane. 

Loud shrieks of wild terror without there arise, 

" Bring weapons ! bring weapons ! be quick ! " the youtt 


" My hand will not fail, through his heart will I fire ! * 
Loud roars the excited one, foaming with ire. 

The wretched maid ventures, approaches the door, 
Transformed, he his mistress seized wildly and tore ; 
The beautiful form, now a horrible spoil, 
Lies bloody, distorted, and torn on the soil. 

And when the dear blood of the maiden was shed, 
He gloomily laid himself down by the dead, 
Beside her he lay, by his sorrow opprest, 
Till the musket ball pierced through the heart in hi; 



I feel, I feel, each day, the fountain failing; 

It is the death that gnaweth at my heart; 

I know it well, and vain is every art 
To hide the fatal ebb, the secret ailing. 
So wearily the spring of life is coiling, 


Until the fatal morning sets it free: 

Then sinks the dark, and who inquires for me 

Will find a man at rest from all his toiling. 

That I can speak to thee of death and dying-, 
And yet my cheeks the loyal blood maintain, 
Seems bold to thee, and almost over-vain: 

But Death! no terror in the world is lying; 
And yet the thought I cannot well embrace, 
Nor have I looked the angel in the face, 

He visited my dreams, the fearful guest! 

My careless vigor, while I slumbered, stealing; 

And, huge and shadowy above me kneeling, 
Buried his woesome talons in my breast. 
I murmured " Dost thou herald my hereafter ? 

Is it the hour? Art calling me away? 

Lo I I have set myself in meet array." 
He broke upon my words with mocking laughter, 
I scanned him sharply, and the terror stood 

In chilly dew my courage had an end. 

His accents through me like a palsy crept. 
" Patience ! " he cried : u I only suck thy blood: 

Didst think 'twas Death already? Not so, friend; 

I am Old Age, thy fable ; thou hast slept" 

They say the year is in its summer glory; 
But thoti, O Sun, appearest chill and pale, 
The vigor of thy youth begins to fail 

Say, art thou, too, becoming old and hoary? 

Old Age, forsooth! what profits our complaining? 
Although a bitter guest and comfortless, 
One learns to smile beneath its stern caress, 

The fated burden manfully sustaining: 

'Tis only for a span, a summer's day. 

Deep in the fitful twilight have I striven, 
Must now the even- feast of rest be holding : 

One curtain falls and lo ! another play 1 
" His will be done whose mercy much has given ! " 
I'll pray my grateful hands to heaven folding. 

VOL. V. 20 


French linguist and archaeologist; born at 
Figeac, department of Lot, October 5, 1778; 
died May 9, 1867. For a number of years he was 
professor of Greek at Grenoble. In 1807 he published 
Antiquities of Grenoble. Ancient Egypt, a very valu- 
able work, was published later, and in 1819 Chronicles 
of the Greek Kings of Egypt. For the latter he re- 
ceived a prize from the Institute of Grenoble. From 
1828 to 1848 he was conservator of the manuscripts 
of the Royal Library in Paris. In 1848 he was ap- 
pointed librarian to Napoleon III. He published a 
Treatise on Archeology (1843), and after tne death 
of his brother, Jean Frangois, edited a number of his 


The reign of King Amenophis I. lasted about thirty 
years. Numerous contemporary monuments remain to us 
of this prince, and a still greater number consecrated to 
his glorious memory by the kings, his successors, who 
honored him by a worship almost divine. 

His name is inscribed in the royal litanies, the text 
of which is preserved on manuscripts of papyrus; the 
image of this Pharaoh is also placed on a number of 
bas-reliefs, in the centre of those of the Egyptian divin- 
ities, and associated with such acts of piety as are per- 
formed by kings, princes, and persons of different castes. 

A deified statue of Amenophis I. in white clay stands in 
the Museum at Turin. In the Egyptian Museum at Paris, 
monuments of this same Pharaoh in various shapes and 
materials are to be seen, either warring against foreign- 
ers, the enemies of Egypt, or carried in a palanquin at 
the side of the goddess Thmei, she of justice and of 
peace, who covers him with her wings ; and, lastly, receiv- 


ing at the same time, with the god Osiris offerings of 
fruit and flowers presented by a family of the country. 

The queen, his wife, is habitually associated with the 
honors paid to the king. Her name is Ahmos-Nofre-Ari, 
the conceived of the God Moon, the beneficent Ari, and 
from some monumental records we may be authorized to 
believe that she was an Ethiopian. The sojourn in Upper 
Egypt of the kings of the seventeenth dynasty and that 
of Amenophis himself during his youth, would account for 
this alliance of the son of Ahmosis with the daughter of 
some Ethiopian personage of distinction. 

Queen Nofre-Ari is also inscribed in the royal litanies; 
a statue of painted wood in the Museum at Turin repre- 
sents this queen. The inscription traced on its base gives 
her the titles of royal spouse of Ammon, the lady of the 
world, the principal royal spouse, and guardian of the re- 
gions of Upper and Lower Egypt. 

Her name is also preserved in the acts of adoration ad- 
dressed to the memory of her husband by the kings and 
queens who succeeded them on the throne. Ancient 
Egypt; translation of MARY S. LESTER. 

Egyptologist; born at Figeac, department of 
Lot, December 23, 1790; died at Paris, March 
4, 1832. He was educated by his brother, Champol- 
lion-Figeac, who was professor of Greek at Grenoble. 
He devoted much time to the study of the Oriental 
languages, especially Coptic, In 1807 he went to Paris 
to continue these studies. In 1809 he was made assist- 
ant professor of History in the Lyceum of Grenoble, 
and in 1812 was appointed principal professor there. 
From 1811 to 1814 he had published two volumes of a 
work entitled Geographical Description of Egypt 


Under the Pharaohs, in which he reproduced manu- 
scripts from the Coptic, giving the national geography 
of Egypt. A comparison of these manuscripts with 
the monuments convinced him that the three systems 
of Egyptian writing, the hieroglyphic, the hierotic, and 
the demotic were practically the same. From a study 
of the famous Rosetta Stone he obtained a key to the 
hieroglyphic writing, and from this key obtained 
equivalents of twenty-one letters of the Greek alphabet. 
This discovery was announced to the Academy of 
Inscriptions in 1822. Its value was at once appre- 
ciated, and pronounced by Niebuhr the greatest dis- 
covery of the century. In 1824 he published a Sum- 
mary of the Hieroglyphic System of the Ancient 
Egyptians. In 1826 he was appointed director of the 
Royal Egyptian Museum at Paris, and in 1828 he was 
commissioned to conduct a scientific expedition to 
Egypt in company with Rosellini, who had received a 
like commission from the Grand Duke of Tuscany, 
Leopold II. After his return to Paris he was made 
a member of the Academy of Inscriptions, and in 1831 
a chair of Egyptian Antiquities was created especially 
for him in the College of France. He died while en- 
gaged with Rosellini in preparing to publish the results 
of their researches in Egypt. A number of his works 
were edited and published after his death by his 
brother, Champollion-Figeac. 

Many interesting stories have been told of his readi- 
ness at deciphering hieroglyphics. Landing at Kar- 
nak, on Jiis way to Upper Egypt, he spent an hour or 
two in the vast halls of the ruined temple. A hun- 
dred scholars had gazed on a sculptured group which 
represents a god as offering to Shishak a host of 
captured cities and countries; but none of them had 


ever read anything to connect all this with the Scrip- 
ture history. Champollion passed his keen eye along 
the group silently; then read aloud to his friends: 
" MELEK AIUDAH ! " King of Judah. " It was like 
a voice/' says the relater, "out of the ancient ages, 
that sound among the ruins of Karnak, as the great 
scholar read the story of the son of Solomon on the 
wall of his conqueror's temple/' 

The Rosetta Stone a trilingual tablet discovered 
in Egypt by the French and turned over to the English 
by treaty had long lain silent and mysterious in the 
British Museum. Scholars had tried to talk with it; 
and Dr. Young had once seemed in a fair way to culti- 
vate its acquaintance. But to none would it tell its 
riddle, until Champollion came along; then to him it 
gave its secret as to a long-awaited friend. Cham- 
pollion's great service to the cause of literature con- 
sisted in his opening to us of these many centuries 
after Christ the door to the literature of those far- 
away centuries before Christ And as the key a 
skeleton key, one might say to this great achieve- 
ment was his famous decipherment of the Rosetta 
Stone, perhaps no better opportunity will occur than 
the present to present a specimen of this celebrated 
document of antiquity. 


It has pleased the priests of all the temples in the land 
to decree that all the honors belonging to the King Ptol- 
emy, ever living, the well beloved of Pthah, god Epiph- 
anes, most gracious, as well as those which are due to his 
father and mother, the gods philopatores, and those which 
are due to his ancestors, should be considered augmented; 
that the statue of King Ptolemy, ever living, be erected in 
each temple, and placed in the most conspicuous spot, 


which shall be called the Statue of Ptolemy, avenger of 
Egypt; near this statue shall be placed the principal god 
of the temple, who will present him with the arms of vic- 
tory; and everything shall be disposed in the manner most 
appropriate. That the priests shall perform, three times 
a day, religious service to these statutes; that they shall 
adorn them with sacred ornaments; and that they shall 
have care to render them, in the great solemnities, all the 
honors which, according to usage, ought to be paid to the 
other deities; that there be consecrated to King Ptolemy 
a statue, and a chapel, gilded, in the most holy of the 
temples ; that this chapel be placed in the sanctuary, with 
all the others; and that in the great solemnities, wherein 
it is customary to bring out the chapels from the sanctuar- 
ies, there shall be brought out that of the god Epiphanes, 
most gracious; and that this chapel may be better dis- 
tinguished from the others, now and in the lapse of time 
hereafter, there shall be placed above it the ten golden 
crowns of the king, which shall bear on their anterior 
part an asp, in imitation of those crowns of aspic form 
which are in the other chapels; and in the middle of 
these crowns shall be placed -the royal ornament termed 
PSHENT, that one which the king wore when he entered 
the Memphis, in the temple, in order to observe the legal 
ceremonies prescribed for the coronation; that there be 
attached to the tetragon encircling the ten crowns affixed 
to the chapel above named, phylacteries of gold with this 
inscription : " This is the chapel of the King, of that King 
who has rendered illustrious the upper and the lower re- 
gion ; " that there be celebrated a festival ; and a great as- 
sembly be held in honor of the ever living, of the well be- 
loved of Pthah, of the King Ptolemy, god Epiphanes most 
gracious, every year; this festival shall take place in all 
the provinces, as well in Upper as in Lower Egypt; and 
shall last for five days, to commence on the first day of 
the month of Thoth; during which those who make the 
sacrifices, the libations, and all the other customary cere- 
monies, shall wear crowns ; they shall be called the priests 
of the god Epiphanes-Eucharistos, and they shall add this 
name to the others that they borrow from the deities to 



the service of whom they are already consecrated. And 
in order that it may be known why, in Egypt, he is glori- 
fied and honored, as is just, the god Epiphanes, most gra- 
cious sovereign, the present decree shall be engraved on 
a stela of hard stone, in Sacred Characters, in Writing 
of the Country, and in Greek Letters ; and this stela shall 
be placed in each of the temples of the first, second, and 
third class existing in all the kingdoms, Gliddon's 
lish Wording. 

clergyman and essayist; bom at Newport, 
R. L, April 7, 1780 ; died at Bennington, Vt., 
October 2, 1842. He was educated at Harvard Uni- 
versity, graduating in 1798. In 1803 he was ordained 
minister of the Federal Street Congregational Church 
in Boston. In an ordination sermon preached in 1819 
he advanced Unitarian views. His tractate on The 
Evidences of Christianity and his Address an War led 
the authorities of Harvard University in 1821 to 
bestow on him the title of D.D. He has been termed 
" the apostle of Unitarianism." He says of himself : 
" I wish to regard myself as belonging not to a sect, 
but to a community of free minds, of lovers of the 
truth, and followers of Christ both on earth and in 
heaven." Coleridge said of him : " He has the love of 
wisdom and the wisdom of love." The best known of 
Channing's works are Remarks on the Life and Char- 
acter of Napoleon Bonaparte; Rem&rks on the Charac- 
ter and Writings of John Mtfton; Essay on the 
Character and Writings of Fenelon; Essay on Self- 
Culture; Essay on the Importance and Means of a 


'National Literature; Address on War, and The Evi- 
dences of Christianity. 


Intellectual culture consists, not chiefly, as many are apt 
to think, in accumulating information, though this is im- 
portant, but in building up a force of thought which may 
be turned at will on any subject on which we are called 
to pass judgment. This force is manifested in the con- 
centration of the attention, in accurate, penetrating obser- 
vation, in reducing complex subjects to their elements, in 
diving beneath the effect to the cause, in detecting the 
more subtle differences and resemblances of things, in 
reading the future in the present, and especially in rising 
from particular facts to general laws or universal truths. 
This last exertion of the intellect, its rising to broad views 
and great principles, constitutes what is called the philo- 
sophical mind, and is especially worthy of culture. What 
it means your own observation must have taught you. 
You must have taken note of two classes of men, the one 
always employed on details, on particular facts, and the 
other using these facts as foundations of higher, wider 
truths. The latter are philosophers. For example, men 
had for ages seen pieces of wood, stones, metals, falling 
to the ground. Newton seized on these particular facts, 
and rose to the idea that all matter tends, or is attracted, 
towards all matter ; and then defined the law according to 
which this attraction or force acts at different distances, 
thus giving us a grand principle which, we have reason 
to think, extends to and controls the whole outward cre- 
ation. One man reads a history, and can tell you all its 
events, and there stops. Another combines these events, 
brings them under one view, and learns the great causes 
which are at work on this or another nation, and what 
are its great tendencies, whether to freedom or despotism, 
to one or another form of civilization. So, one man talks 
continually about the particular actions of this or another 
neighbor, whilst another looks beyond the acts to the in- 
ward principle from which they spring, and gathers from 


them larger views of human nature. In a word, one man 
sees all things apart and in fragments, whilst another 
strives to discover the harmony, connection, unity of all. 

One of the great evils of society is that men, occupied 
perpetually with petty details, want general truths, want 
broad, fixed principles. Hence many, not wicked, are un- 
stable, habitually inconsistent, as if they were overgrown 
children rather than men. To build up that strength of 
mind which apprehends and clings to great "universal 
truths is the highest intellectual self-culture; and here I 
wish you to observe how entirely this culture agrees with 
that of the moral and religious principles of our nature, 
of which I have previously spoken. In each of these the 
improvement of the soul consists in raising it above what 
is narrow, particular, individual, selfish, to the universal 
and unconfined. To improve a man is to liberalize, en- 
large him in thought, feeling and purpose. Narrowness 
of intellect and heart, this is the degredation from which 
all culture aims to rescue the human being. Self-Culture. 


His intellect was distinguished by rapidity of thought 
He understood by a glance what most men, and superior 
men, could learn only by study. He darted to a con- 
clusion rather by intuition than reasoning. In war, which 
was the only subject of which he was master, he seized in 
an instant on the great points of his own and Ms en- 
emy's positions ; and combined at once the movements by 
which an overpowering force might be thrown with unex- 
pected fury on a vulnerable part of the hostile Hue, and 
the fate of any army be decided in a day. He understood 
war as a science; but his mind was too bold, rapid, and 
irrepressible, to be enslaved by the technics of his profes- 
sion. He found the old armies fighting by rule, and he 
discovered the true characteristics of genius, which, with- 
out despising rules, knows when and how to break them. 
He understood thoroughly the immense moral power 
which is gained by originality and rapidity of operation. 
He astonished and paralyzed his enemies by his unfore- 
seen and impetuous assaults, by the suddenness with whicti 


the storm of battle burst upon them; and, whilst giving 
to his soldiers the advantages of modern discipline, 
breathed into them, by his quick and decisive movements, 
the enthusiasm of ruder ages. This power of dishearten- 
ing the foe and of spreading through his own ranks a con- 
fidence and exhilarating courage which made war a pas- 
time, and seemed to make victory sure, distinguished Na- 
poleon in an age of uncommon military talent, and was 
one main instrument of his future power. 

The wonderful effects of that rapidity of thought by 
which Bonaparte was marked, the signal success of his new 
mode of warfare, and the almost incredible speed with 
which his fame was spread through nations, had no small 
agency in fixing his character and determining for a period 
the fate of empires. These stirring influences infused a 
new consciousness of his own might They gave intensity 
and audacity to his ambition; gave form and substance to 
his indefinite visions of glory, and raised his fiery hopes 
to empire. The burst of admiration which his early career 
called forth must, m particular, have had an influence in 
imparting to his ambition that modification by which it 
was characterized, and which contributed alike to its suc- 
cess and to its fall. He began with astonishing the world, 
with producing a sudden and universal sensation, such as 
modern times had not witnessed. To astonish, as well as 
to sway by his energies, became the great aim of his life. 
Henceforth to rule was not enough for Bonaparte. He 
wanted to amaze, to dazzle, to overpower men's souls, by 
striking bold, magnificent, and unanticipated results. To 
govern ever so absolutely would not have satisfied him if 
he must have governed silently. He wanted to reign 
through wonder and awe, by the grandeur and terror of his 
name, by displays of power which would rivet on him every 
eye, and make him the theme of every tongue. Power 
was his supreme object, but a power which should be 
gazed at as well as felt, which should strike men as a 
prodigy, which should shake old thrones as an earthquake, 
and, by the suddenness of its new creations, awaken some- 
thing of the submissive wonder which miraculous agency 
inspires. ... He lived for effect. The world was 


his theatre, and he cared little what part he played, if he 
might walk the sole hero on the stage, and call forth bursts 
of applause which would silence all other fame, . . . 

His history shows a spirit of self-exaggeration un- 
rivalled in enlightened ages, and which reminds us of an 
Oriental king to whom incense had been burned from his 
birth as to a deity. This was the chief source of his 
crimes. He wanted the sentiment of a common nature 
with his fellow-beings. He had no sympathies with his 
race. That feeling of brotherhood which is developed in 
truly great souls, with peculiar energy, and through which 
they give up themselves, willing victims, joyful sacrifices, 
to the interests of mankind, was wholly unknown to him. 
His heart, amidst its wild beatings, never had a throb of 
disinterested love. The ties which bind man to man he 
broke asunder. The proper happiness of a man, which 
consists in the victory of moral energy and social affection 
over the selfish passions, he cast away for the lonely joy of 
a despot. With powers which might have made him a 
glorious representative and minister of the beneficent Di- 
vinity, and with natural sensibilities which might have 
been exalted into sublime virtues, he chose to separate him- 
self from his kind, to forego their love, esteem, and grat- 
itude, that he might become their gaze, their fear, their 
wonder; and for this selfish, solitary good, parted with 
peace and imperishable renown. . . . 

His original propensities, released from restraint and 
pampered by indulgence to a degree seldom allowed to 
mortals, grew up into a spirit of despotism as stern and 
absolute as ever usurped the human heart The love of 
power and supremacy absorbed, consumed him. . . . 
To him all human will, desire, power, were to bend. 
His superiority none might question. He insulted the, 
fallen, who had contracted the guilt of opposing his prog- 
ress ; and not even woman's loveliness, and the dignity of 
a queen, could give shelter from his contumely. His allies 
were his vassals, nor was their vassalage concealed. Too 
lofty to use the arts of conciliation, preferring command 
to persuasion, overbearing and all-grasping, he spread dis- 
trust, exasperation, fear, and revenge through Europe; 


and when the day of retribution came the old antipathies 
and mutual jealousies of nations were swallowed up in one 
burning purpose to prostrate the common tyrant, the uni- 
versal foe. 

Such was Napoleon Bonaparte. But some will say he 
was still a great man. This we mean not to deny. But 
we would have it understood that there are various kinds 
or orders of greatness, and that the highest did not belong 
to Bonaparte. There are different orders of greatness. 
Among these, the first rank is unquestionably due to moral 
greatness or magnanimity; to that sublime energy by 
which the soul, smitten with the love of virtue, binds it- 
self indissolubly, for life and for death, to truth and duty ; 
espouses as its own the interests of human nature ; scorns 
all meanness and defies all peril; hears in its own con- 
science a voice louder than threatenings and thunders; 
withstands all the powers of the universe which would 
serve it from the cause of freedom and religion; reposes 
an unfaltering trust in God in the darkkest hour, and is 
" ever ready to be offered up " on the altar of its coun- 
try or of mankind. 

Of this moral greatness, which throws all other forms 
of greatness into obscurity, we see not a trace in Napo- 
leon. Though clothed with the power of a god, the 
thought of consecrating himself to the introduction of a 
new and higher era, to the exaltation of the character and 
condition of his race, seems never to have dawned upon 
his mind. The spirit of disinterestedness and self-sacrifice 
seems not to have waged a moment's war with self-will 
and ambition. His ruling passions, indeed, were singu- 
larly at variance with magnanimity. Moral greatness has 
too much simplicity, is too unostentatious, too self-subsist- 
ent, and enters into others' interest with too much heart- 
iness, to live an hour for what Napoleon always lived, to 
make itself the theme, and gaze, and wonder of a dazzled 

Next to moral, conies intellectual greatness, or genius 
in the highest sense of that word ; and by this we mean that 
sublime capacity of thought through which the soul, smit- 
ten with the love of the true and the beautiful, essays to 


comprehend the universe, soars into the heavens, pene- 
trates the earth, penetrates itself, questions the past, antici- 
pates the future, traces out the general and all-compre- 
hending laws of nature, binds together by innumerable 
affinities and relations all the objects of its knowledge, 
rises from the finite and transient to the infinite and ever- 
lasting, frames to itself from its own fulness lovelier and 
sublimer forms than it beholds, discerns the harmonies be- 
tween the world within and the world without us, and 
finds in every region of the universe types and interpre- 
ters of its own deep mysteries and glorious inspirations. 
This is the greatness which belongs to philosophers and 
to the master spirit in poetry and the fine arts. 

Next comes the greatness of action; and by this we 
mean the sublime power of conceiving bold and extensive 
plans; of constructing and bringing to bear on a mighty 
object a complicated machinery of means, energies, and 
arrangements, and of accomplishing great outward effects. 
To this head belongs the greatness of Bonaparte, and that 
he possessed it we need not prove, and none will be hardy 
enough to deny. A man who raised himself from obscur- 
ity to a throne, who changed the face of the world, who 
made himself felt through powerful and civilized nations, 
who sent the terror of his name across seas and oceans, 
whose will was pronounced and feared as destiny, whose 
donatives were crowns, whose antechamber was thronged 
by submissive princes, who broke down the awful barrier 
of the Alps and made them a highway, and whose fame 
was spread beyond the boundaries of civilization to the 
steppes of the Cossack and the deserts of the Arab a 
man who has left this record of himself in history has 
taken out of our hands the question whether he shall be 
called great. All must concede to him a sublime power 
of action, an energy equal to great effects. The Life and 
Character of Napoleon Bonaparte. 


Poetry, far from injuring society, is one of the great in- 
struments of its refinement and exaltation. It lifts the 
mind above ordinary life, gives it respite from <3e- 


pressing cares, and awakens the consciousness of its af- 
finity with what is pure and noble. In its legitimate and 
highest efforts it has the same tendency and aim with 
Christianity; that is, to spiritualize our nature. True, 
poetry has been made the instrument of vice, the pander of 
bad passions; but when genius thus stoops it dims its 
fires and parts with much of its power; and even when 
poetry is enslaved to licentiousness or misanthropy she 
cannot wholly forget her true vocation. Strains of pure 
feeling, touches of tenderness, images of innocent happi- 
ness, sympathies with suffering virtue, bursts of scorn or 
indignation at the hollowness of the world, passages true 
to our moral nature, often escape in an immoral work, 
and show us how hard it is for a gifted spirit to divorce 
itself wholly from what is good. 

Poetry has a natural alliance with our best affections. 
It delights in the beauty and sublimity of the outward 
creation and of the soul. It indeed portrays, with terrible 
energy, the excesses of the passions ; but they are passions 
which show a mighty nature, which are full of power, 
which command awe, and excite a deep, though shudder- 
ing, sympathy. Its great tendency and purpose is to 
carry the mind above and beyond the beaten, dusty, weary 
walks of ordinary life; to lift it into a purer element, and 
to breathe into it more profound and generous emotion. 
It reveals to us the loveliness of nature, brings back the 
freshness of early feeling, revives the relish of simple 
pleasures, keeps unquenched the enthusiasm which 
warmed the spring-time of our being, refines youthful 
love, strengthens our interest in human nature by vivid 
delineations of its tenderest and loftiest feelings, spreads 
our sympathies over all classes of society, knits us by 
new ties with universal being, and, through the brightness 
of its prophetic visions, helps faith to lay hold on the 
future life. 

We are aware that it is objected to poetry that it gives 
wrong views and excites false expectations o'f life, peoples 
the mind with shadows and illusions, and builds up 
imagination on the ruins of wisdom. That there is a wis- 
dom against which poetry wars the wisdom of the 


senses, which makes physical comfort and gratification the 
supreme good and wealth the chief interest of life we 
do not deny; nor do we deem it the least service which 
poetry renders to mankind that it redeems them from the 
thraldom of this earthborn prudence. But passing over 
this topic, we would observe that the complaint against 
poetry as abounding in illusion and deception is in the 
main groundless. In many poems there is more of truth 
than in many histories and philosophic theories. The fic- 
tions of genius are often the vehicles of the sublimest ver- 
ities, and its flashes often open new regions of thought, and 
throw new light on the mysteries of our being. In poetry 
when the letter is falsehood the spirit is often profoundest 
wisdom. And if truth thus dwells in the boldest fictions of 
the poet, much more may it be expected in his delineations 
of life; for the present life, which is the first stage of the 
immortal mind, abounds in the materials of poetry, and it 
is the high office of the bard to detect this divine element 
among the grosser labors and pleasures of our earthly 

The present life is not wholly prosaic, precise, tame and 
finite. To the gifted eye it abounds in the poetic. The af- 
fections which spread beyond ourselves and stretch far into 
futurity ; the workings of mighty passions, which seein to 
arm the soul with an almost superhuman energy; the in- 
nocent and irrepressible joy of infancy; the bloom, and 
buoyancy, and dazzling hopes of youth; the throbbings 
of the heart when it first wakes to love, and dreams of a 
happiness too vast for earth; woman, with her beauty, 
and grace, and gentleness, and fulness of feeling, and 
depth of affection, and blushes of purity, and the tones and 
looks which only a mother's heart can inspire: these 
are all poetical. It is not true that the poet paints a life 
which does not exist He only extracts and concentrates, 
as it were life's ethereal essence, arrests and condenses its 
volatile fragrance, brings together its scattered beauties, 
and prolongs its more refined but evanescent joys. And 
in this he does well; for it is good to feel that life is 
not wholly usurped by cares for subsistence and physical 
gratifications, but admits, in measures which may be 


indefinitely enlarged, sentiments and delights worthy of a 
higher being. The Character and Writings of Milton. 


I have said that the elevation of man is to be sought, or, 
rather, consists, first, in Force of Thought exerted for 
the acquisition of truth ; and to this I ask your serious at- 
tention. Thought, thought, is the fundamental distinction 
of mind and the great work of life. All that a man does 
outwardly is but the expression and completion of his in- 
ward thought. To work effectually, he must think clearly. 
To act nobly, he must think nobly. Intellectual force is a 
principal element of the soul's life, and should be proposed 
by every man as a principal end of his being. 

It is common to distinguish between the intellect and the 
conscience, between the power of thought and virtue, and 
to say that virtuous action is worth more than strong 
thinking. But we mutilate our nature by thus drawing 
lines between actions or energies of the soul which are 
intimately, indissolubly, bound together. The head and 
the heart are not more vitally connected than thought and 
virtue. Does not conscience include, as a part of itself, 
the noblest action of the intellect or reason? Do we not 
degrade it by making it a mere feeling? Is it not some- 
thing more? Is it not a wise discernment of the right, 
the holy, the good? Take away thought from virtue, and 
what remains worthy of a man ? Is not high virtue more 
than blind instinct ? Is it not founded on, and does it not 
include clear, bright perceptions of what is lovely and 
grand in character and action? Without power of 
thought, what we call conscientiousness, or a desire to do 
right, shoots out into illusion, exaggeration, pernicious 
excess. The most cruel deeds on earth have been perpe- 
trated in the name of conscience. Men have hated and 
murdered one another from a sense of duty. . . . The 
worst frauds have taken the name of pious. Thought, in- 
telligence, is the dignity of a man, and no man is rising 
but in proportion as he is learning to think clearly and 
forcibly, or directing the energy of his mind to the ac- 
quisition of truth. Every man, in whatever condition, is 


to be a student. No matter what other vocation he may 
have, his chief action is to Think 

I say every man is to be a student, a thinker. This 
does not mean that he is to shut himself within four walls 
and bend body and mind over books. Men thought be- 
fore books were written, and some of the greatest thinkers 
never entered what we call a study. Nature, Scripture, 
Society, and Life, present perpetual subjects for thought; 
and the man who collects, concentrates, employs his fac- 
ulties on any of these subjects, for the purpose of getting 
the truth, is so far a student, a thinker, a philosopher, and 
is rising to the dignity of a man. It is time that we should 
cease to limit to professed scholars the titles of thinkers, 
philosophers. Whoever seeks truth with an earnest mind, 
no matter when or how, belongs to the school of intellect- 
ual men, 

In a loose sense of the word, all men may be said to 
think; that is, a succession of ideas, notions, passes 
through their minds from morning to night; but in as far 
as this succession is passive, undirected, or governed only 
by accident and outward impulse, it has littk more claim 
to dignity than the experience of the brute, who receives, 
with like passiveness, sensations from abroad through his 
waking hours. Such thought if thought it may be 
callaLr- having no aim, is as useless as the vision of an 
eye which tfests on nothing, which flies without pause over 
earth aod sky, and of coaseqtience receives no <Mstinct 
image. Thought, in its true sense, is an energy of the in- 
tellect In thought the mind not only receives impressions 
of suggestions from without or within, but reacts upon 
them, collects its attention, concentrates its forces upon 
them, breaks them up, and analyzes them like a living 
laboratory, and then combines them anew, traces their 
connections, and thus impresses itself on all the objects 
which engage it. On the Elevation of the Working 

VOL. V. 21 


|HAPIN, EDWIN HUBBELL, an American clergy- 
man and orator ; born at Union Village, N. Y., 
December 27, 1814; died at New York, De- 
cember 27, 1880. He was educated at Bennington, 
Vt, and preached in Richmond, Va., Charlestown, 
Mass., Boston, and New York, to which city he re- 
moved in 1848. He was one of the foremost pulpit 
orators, and was among the favorite popular lecturers 
of his day. Among his publications are Hours of 
Communion; The Crown of Thorns; Discourses on the 
Lord's Prayer; Characters in the Gospels; Christianity 
the Perfection of True Manliness; Humanity in the 
City, and The Moral Aspects of City Life. Henry 
Ward Beecher used to say of Dr. Chapin's oratory: 
" I have never met or heard a man who in his height 
and glow of eloquence surpassed or equalled him in 
many qualities. It was a trance to sit under him in 
his ripest and most inspired hours ; it was a vision of 
beauty; the world seemed almost dark and cold for 
an hour afterward." "Dr. Ellis," said the Boston 
Literary World, in its review of Ellis's Life of Chapin, 
*' discusses his claim to be called poet. He was a 
poet in all but the form ; and he was too busy and too 
impatient to grasp that from the great altitudes of art. 
His life and his speech were poetical, but his verse was 
hardly poetry. His great work was in the pulpit ; the 
fame of his sermons can hardly die out, nor can he 
lose his place from among the very foremost of our 
pulpit orators. His oratory was a flame of fire; he 
will give out life and heat long after his ashes are 
cold. His was the passion of a war-king in the service 
of the Prince of Peace ; his best passages were to those 


who remember them a storm of soul that gave new 
verdure and chasteness to the virtue of those who 


Truths, opinions, ideas, spoken or written, are not 
merely facts or entities, they are forces; and it is easy to 
discover their supremacy over all the energies of the mat 
terial world. Every invention, every utensil or vehicle, 
like the locomotive or the telegraph, assists society is a 
means by which it is developed : but the developing power 
itself is the intelligence which runs to and fro with the 
rail-car, is the sentiment which leaps along the wires. 
Everything grows from the centre outward; and so hu- 
manity grows from moral and intellectual inspirations. 
The globe on which we live unfolds its successive epochs 
through flood and fire, and gravitation carries it majest- 
ically onward toward the constellation Hercules. But the 
history of our race the great drama for which the 
physical world affords a theatre is developed by more 
subtile forces. Whatever touches the nerve of motive, 
whatever shifts man's moral position, is mightier than 
steam, or caloric, or lightning. It projects us into another 
sphere; it throws us upon a higher or lower plane of 
activity. Thus, a martyr's blood may become not only 
" the seed of the Church/' but of far-reaching revolutions ; 
and the philosopher's abstraction beats down feudal cas- 
tles, and melts barriers of steel. One great principle will 
tell more upon the life of a people than all its discoveries 
and conquests. Its character in history will be decided, 
not by its geographical conformation, but by its ideas. In 
the great sum of social destiny, England is not that empire 
whose right arm encircles the northern lakes, and whose 
left stretches far down into the Indian Sea; but an in- 
fluence which is vascular with the genius of Bacon and 
Locke, and Shakespeare and Milton. And our own Amer- 
ica, reaching from ocean to ocean, and crowned with its 
thirty stars, is not a mere territory on the map, a material 
weight among nations, but a sentiment we will trust 


and believe a sentiment to go abroad to other people, 
and into other times, caught from apostles of liberty, and 
kindled by champions of human right. 

As we look around, then, upon the great city, which, 
more than any other place, represents the form and work- 
ing of the age, let us remember that what is stirring in the 
world's heart, and changing the face of the times, is not 
really the influence of invention, or art; is not, primarily, 
the mighty commerce that clusters about its wharves, or 
the traffic that rolls through its streets; but that intelli- 
gence, that sentiment, those thoughts and opinions, whose 
written or spoken word is power. Moral Aspect of City 

CHAPMAN, GEORGE, an English poet, dramatist, 
and translator; born at Hitchin Hill, Hert- 
fordshire, in 1559; died at London, May 12, 
1634. He was educated at Oxford, and it is supposed 
that he travelled in Germany. At the age of thirty- 
five he published a poem, The Shadow of Night. At 
thirty-nine he was known as a writer for the stage. 
He had also published the first part of his translation 
of Homer. Among his eighteen plays are The Blind 
Beggar of Alexandria; All Fools; Monsieur D' Olive; 
Bussy D' Ambois; The Conspiracy and Tragedy of 
Charles, Duke of Byron; The Widow's Tears; Casar 
and Pompey; Alphonsu*s, Emperor of Germany, and 
Revenge for Honor. His style is sometimes clear, 
vigorous, and simple, sometimes obscure and pedantic. 
Solid thought, noble sentiment, and graceful fancy, are 
intermingled with turgid obscurity, indecency, an4 
bombast. Yet so competent a critic as Charles Lamb 
regarded Chapman as the greatest after Shakespeare 


of the English dramatists. Chapman's best work is 
his translation of Homer and Hesiod. 


Thus fury like she went, 
Two women as she willed at hand; and made her quick 

Up to the tower and press of men, her spirit in uproar. 

She cast her greedy eye, and saw her Hector slain and 

T' Achilles' chariot, manlessly dragg'd to the Grecian 

Black night strook through her, under her trance took 

away her feet, 

And back she shrunk with such a sway that off her head- 
tire flew, 
Her coronet, caul, ribbands, veil that golden Venus 


On her white shoulders that high day when warlike Hec- 
tor won 

Her hand in nuptials in the court of King Eetlon, 
And that great dower then given with her. About her, 

on their knees, 
Her husband's sisters, brothers' wives, fell round, and 

by degrees 

Recovered her. Then when again her respirations found 
Free pass (her mind and spirit met) these thoughts her 

words did sound: 
" O Hector, O me, cursed dame, both born beneath one 


Thou here, I in Cilician Thebes, where Placus doth elate 
His shady forehead, in the court where King Eetion 
(Hapless) begot unhappy me; which would he had not 

To live past thee: thou now art dived to Pluto's gloomy 

Sunk through the coverts of the earth; I in a hell of 



Left here thy widow; one poor babe born to unhappy 

Whom thou leav'st helpless as he thee, he born to all 

the wroth 

Of woe and labor. Lands left him will others seize upon ; 
The orphan day of all friends' helps robs every mother's 

An orphan all men suffer sad; his eyes stand still with 

tears : 

Need tries his father's friends, and fails ; of all his favor- 

If one the cup gives, 'tis not long, the wine he finds in it 
Scarce moists his palate; if he chance to gain the grace 

to sit, 

Surviving fathers' sons repine; use contumelies, strike, 
Bid 'leave us, where's thy father's place?' He weeping 

with dislike, 

Retires to me, to me, alas, Astyanax is he 
Born to these miseries; he that late fed on his father's 

To whom all knees bow'd, daintiest fare apposed him; 

and when sleep 
Lay on his temples, his cries still'd (his heart even laid 

in steep 

Of all things precious), a soft bed, a careful nurse's arms 
Took him to guardiance. But now as huge a world of 

Lies on his sufferance; now thou want'st thy father's 

hand to friend, 

my Astyanax; my Lord, thy hand that did defend 
These gates of Ilion, these long walls by thy arm meas- 
ured still 

Amply and only. Yet at fleet thy naked corse must fill 
Vile worms, when dogs are satiate ; far from thy parents' 

Far from those funeral ornaments that thy mind would 


(So sudden being the chance of arms) ever expecting 


Which task, though my heart would not serve f employ 
my hands beneath, 

I made my women yet perform. Many and much in 

Were those integuments they wrought t* adorn thy ex- 
equies ; 

Which, since they fly thy use, thy corse not laid in their 

Thy sacrifice they shall be made; these hands in mis- 
chievous fire 

Shall vent their vanities. And yet, being consecrate to 

They shall be kept for citizens, and their fair wives, to 

Thus spake she weeping; all the dames endeavoring to 

Her desert state, fearing their own, wept with her tear 
for tear. 

Translation of the Iliad. 


Cato. As nature works in all things to an end, 
So, in th' appropriate honor of that end, 
All things precedent have their natural frame; 
And therefore is there a proportion 
Betwix the end of these things and their primes; 
For else there could not be in their creation, 
Always, or for the most part, that firm form 
In their still like existence, that we see 
In each full creature. What proportion, thei 
Hath an immortal with a mortal substance? 
A.nd therefore the mortality to which 
A man is subject rather is a sleep 
Than bestial death; since sleep and death are called 
The twins of nature. For if absolute death 
And bestial seize the body of a man, 
Then is there no proportion in his parts, 
His soul being free from death, which otherwise 
Retains divine proportion. For as sleep 


[o disproportion holds with human souls, 
iut aptly quickens the proportion 
Pwix them and bodies, making bodies fitter 
"o give up forms to souls, which is their end ; 
;o death (twin-born of sleep) resolving all 
/tan's bodies' heavy parts; in lighter nature 
/lakes a reunion with the sprightly soul ; 
Vhen in a second life their beings given, 
folds this proportion firm in highest heaven. 

Athenodorus. Hold you our bodies shall revive, resum< 

3ur souls again to heaven? 

Cato. Past doubt, though others 

Think heaven a world too high for our low reaches, 
Slot knowing the sacred sense of him that sings, 
fove can let down a golden chain from heaven, 
Which, tied to earth, shall fetch up earth and seas ; 
Ajid what's that golden chain but our pure souls. 
A. golden beam of him, let down by him, 
That, governed with his grace, and drawn by him, 
Can hoist this earthly body up to him, 
The sea, the air, and all the elements 
Comprest in it: not while 'tis thus concrete, 
But fin'd by death, and then given heavenly heat. 

Ccesar and Pompey. 


Let no man value at a little price 
A virtuous woman's counsel ; her wing'd spirit 
Is feathered oftentimes with heavenly words, 
And (like her beauty), ravishing and pure, 
The weaker body still the stronger soul. 
When good endeavors do her powers apply, 
Her love draws nearest man's felicity. 
Oh I what a treasure is a virtuous wife, 
Discreet and loving. Not one gift on earth 
Makes a man's life so highly bound to heaven; 
She gives him double forces to endure 
And to enjoy; by being one with him, 


Feeling his joys and griefs with equal sense; 

And, like the twins Hippocrates reports, 

If he fetch sighs, she draws her breath as short; 

If he lament, she melts herself in tears; 

If he be glad she triumphs; if he stir, 

She moves his way; in all things his sweet ape; 

And is in alterations passing strange, 

Himself divinely varied without change, 

Gold is right precious, but his price infects 

With pride and avarice ; Authority lifts 

Hats from men's heads, and bows the strongest knees, 

Yet cannot bend in rule the weakest hearts; 

Music delights but one sense; nor choice meats; 

One quickly fades, the other stirs to sin; 

But a true wife both sense and soul delights, 

And mixeth not her good with any ill, 

Her virtues (ruling hearts) all powers command, 

All store without her leaves a man but poor, 

And with her poverty is exceeding store; 

No time Is tedious with her, her true worth 

Makes a true husband think his arms enfold 

(With her alone) a complete world of gold. 



O 'tis wondrous mudb 

(Though nothing prisde) that the right vertuotts touch 
Of a well- written soule to vertue moves, 
Nor have we soules to purpose, if their loves 
Of fitting objects be not so inflamM; 
How much then were this kingdome's maine soul maim'd, 
To want this great inflamer of all powers 
That move in human soules ! All realms but yours 
Are honored with him ; and hold best that state 
To have his works to contemplate 
In which humanity to her height is raisde, 
Which all the world (yet none enough) hath praisde. 
Seas, earth, and heaven he did in verse comprize; 
Out-sung the Muses, and did equalise 
Their king Apollo ; being so f arre from cause 


Of princes' light thoughts, that their gravest lawes 

May find stuff to be fashioned by his lines. 

Through all the pomp of kingdomes still he shines, 

And graceth all his graces. Then let lie 

Your lutes and viols, and more loftily 

Make the heroiques of your Homer sung, 

To drums and trumpets set his Angel's tongue : 

And with the princely sports of hawkes you use 

Behold the kingly flight of his high Muse ; 

And see, how like the Phoenix, she renues 

Her age and starrie feathers in your sunne 

Thousands of yeares attending; everie one 

Blowing the holy fire, and throwing in 

Their seasons, kingdomes, nations that have bin 

Subverted in them ; lawes, religions, all 

Offered to change and greedie funerall; 

Yet still your Homer lasting, living, raigning. 

|HAPONE, HESTER MULSO, an English poet 
and moralist ; born at Twy well, Northampton- 
shire, October 27, 1727 ; died at Hadley, De- 
cember 25, 1801. She was a daughter of Thomas 
Mulso; her mother was a remarkably beautiful woman, 
daughter of a Colonel Thomas, known as " Handsome 
Thomas." At nine years of age Hester wrote a 
romance, The Loves of Amoret and Melissa, and ex- 
hibited so much promise that her mother, becoming 
jealous, suppressed the child's literary efforts. When 
the mother died, Hester took the management of her 
father's house, using her spare time to study French, 
Italian, Latin, music, and drawing. In 1750 four bil- 
lets of hers were published by Johnson in The Ram- 
bler; and she began to attract notice, to be talked about, 


and to become acquainted with the literary celebrities 
of her time. She called Johnson's Rasselas " an ill- 
contrived, unfinished, unnatural, and uninstructive 
tale." Richardson called her " a little spitfire," and de- 
lighted in her sprightly conversation. One bluestock- 
ing wrote to another : " Pray, who and what is this 
Miss Mulso? I honor her; I want to know more of 
her." She took sick, and as soon as she was well she 
sent an Ode to Health to Elizabeth Carter; then 
another Ode, which that learned lady printed with her 
translation of Epictetus. She contributed The Story 
of Fidelia to The Adventurer. She met an attorney 
named Chapone, and fell in love with him; he was 
averse to the idea of marrying her, but she made 
him yield, and they were married in 1760. Pending 
the negotiations, she wrote her Matrimonial Creed in 
seven articles, and addressed it to Richardson, the 
novelist. Her husband died in less than a year, and 
she was mistress of a small income, which was in- 
creased upon the death of her father, a couple of years 
later. Her best-known essays, Letters on the Im- 
provement of the Mind, written in 1772 for the bene- 
fit of the daughter of her brother, and dedicated to 
Lady Mary Wortley Montagu, brought her in- 
numerable entreaties to undertake the education of 
daughters of the gentry and nobility. In 1775 ner 
Miscellanies appeared and in 1777 her Letter to a 
New Married Lady. The following year she was 
introduced to the King and Queen, who said they 
hoped their daughter had profited by her writings. 
Many deaths of friends and relatives now occurred in 
rapid succession. She sought rest in retirement, but 
her health failed rapidly, and she died on Christmas 


day, 1801, aged seventy-four. Her works passed 
through many editions and retained their high repute 
for a long time. 


To be perfectly polite, one must have great presence of 
mind with a delicate and quick sense of propriety; or, in 
other words, one should be able to form an instantaneous 
judgment of what is fittest to be said or done on every oc- 
casion as it offers. I have known one or two persons who 
seemed to owe this advantage to nature only, and to 
have the peculiar happiness of being born, as it were, with 
another sense, by which they had an immediate precep- 
tion of what was proper and improper in cases absolutely 
new to them; but this is the lot of very few. In general, 
propriety of behavior must be the fruit of instruction, of 
observation and reasoning; and it is to be cultivated and 
improved like any other branch of knowledge or virtue. 
A good temper is a necessary groundwork for it; and if to 
this be added a good understanding, applied industriously 
to this purpose, I think it can hardly fail of attaining all 
that is essential in it. Particular modes and ceremonies 
of behavior vary in different countries, and even in differ- 
ent parts of the same town. These can only be learned by 
observation on the manners of those who are best skilled 
in them, and by keeping what is called good company. 
But the principles of politeness are the same in all places. 
Wherever there are human beings it must be impolite to 
hurt the temper or to shock the passions of those you 
converse with. It must everywhere be good breeding to 
set your companions in the most advantageous point of 
light, by giving each the opportunity of displaying their 
most agreeable talents, and by carefully avoiding all oc- 
casions of exposing their defects; to exert your own 
endeavors to please and to amuse, but not to outshine 
them ; to give each their due share of attention and no- 
tice; not engrossing the talk when others are desirous to 
speak, nor suffering the conversation to flag for want of 
introducing something to continue or renew a subject; 


not to push your advantages in argument so far that your 
antagonist cannot retreat with honor, In short, it is a 
universal duty in society to consider others more than 
yourself "in honor preferring one another." Letters 
on the Improvement of the Mind. 

novelist; born January 2, 1828; died at Lon- 
don, March 28, 1896. She was married in 
1851 to Andrew Paton Charles, of Hampstead Heath. 
In early life she wrote The Draytons and Dav- 
enants; and in 1863 appeared the work by which 
her reputation as an authoress of religious and 
reflective fiction was made, The Chronicles of 
the Schonberg-Cotta Family. All her writings hav- 
ing appeared without her name she is com- 
monly known as "the author of The Schonberg- 
Cotta Family" This is a story of the German Refor- 
mation, and presents, in the form of a series of letters 
between a brother at school and a sister at home, a 
careful picture of citizen life in the time of Ltither. 
This was followed the next year by The Diary of Kitty 
Trevelyan, which enjoyed almost as wide a popularity. 
It dealt with the times and incidents of the Methodist 
revival tinder Wesley. The Early Down, published in 
1865, treated, somewhat similarly, the time of the 
Reformation in England. Other works by her are 
The Cripple of Antioch; The Olden Time; Martyrs of 
Spain; Liberators of Holland; The Two Vocations; 
Wanderings Over Bible Lands and Seas; Tales of 
Christian Life; Christian Life in Song; The Song 


Without Words; Mary; Winifred Bertram; The 
tram Family; Lapsed but Not Lost, and many others. 
She has also acquired reputation as a linguist, painter, 
musician, and poet. Her writings, as will be seen 
from the titles, are all of a general evangelical tone. 
" No modern writer for the religious public/' says the 
Princeton Review, " has attained a higher position than 
that which justly belongs to the author of this series 
of works. Their whole tendency is to promote true 


It was not until the poor lad was dead that they found 
what he had been so tightly clasping in his hand. It was 
a fragment of paper containing a few words written by 
Job Forster, of which Tim had indeed "taken care," as 
the clasp of the lifeless hand proved too well. The words 
were " Rachel, be of good cheer. I am hurt on the 
shoulder, but not so bad. They are taking me, with 
Roger, to Oxford goal. His wound is in the side, painful 
at first, but Dr. Antony got the ball out, and says he will 
do well. Thee must not fret, nor try to come to us. It 
would hurt thee and do us no good. The Lord careth." 

Rachel read this letter, with every word made emphatic 
by her certainty that Job would make as light as possible 
of any trouble, by her knowledge that his pen was not that 
of a ready writer, and by her sense of what she would have 
done herself in similar circumstances. 

" Rachel ! " the word, she knew, had taken him a minute 
or two to spell out, and it meant a whole volume of es- 
teem and love ; and, by the same measure, " hurt " meant 
"disabled;" and "not so bad" simply not in immediate 
peril of life; and "thee must not come" to her heart 
meant " come if thou canst, though I dare not bid thee." 

It was not Rachel's way to let trouble make her helpless, 
or even prevent her being helpful where she was needed. 
God, she was sure, had not meant it for that. She lived 
at the door of the House of the Lord, and therefore, at 


this suden alarm, she did not need a long pilgrimage by an 
untrodden path to reach the sanctuary. A moment to ky 
down the burden and enter the open door, and lift tip the 
heart there within ; and then to the duty in hand. She re- 
mained, therefore, with Gammer Grindle until they had 
laid the poor faithful lad in his shroud; then she gave all 
the needful orders for the burial, so that it was not till 
dusk she was seated in her own cottage, with leisure to 
plan how she should carry out what, from the moment she 
had first glanced at her husband's letter, she had deter- 
mined to do. Half an hour sufficed her for thinking, or 
" taking counsel," as she called it; half an hour for mak- 
ing preparations and coming across to us at Netherby, with 
her mind made up and all her arrangements settled. Ar- 
rived at the Hall, she handed Job's letter to Aunt Doro- 

" What can be done ? M said Aunt Dorothy. " How can 
it be that we have not heard from my brother or Dr. 
Antony? The king's forces must be between us and Ox- 
ford, and the letters must have been seized- But never 
fear, Rachel," she added, in a consoling tone. ** At first 
they talked of treating all the Parliament prisoners as 
traitors ; but that will never be. A ransom or an exchange 
is certain. Stay here to-night; it will be less lonely for 
you. We can take counsel together; and to-morrow we 
will think what to do." 

" I have been thinking, Mistress Dorothy, and I have 
taken counsel, I am going at daybreak to-morrow to Ox- 
ford; and I came to ask if I could do atight for you, or 
take any message to Master Roger." 

" How? " said Aunt Dorothy. " And who will go with 
you? Who will venture within the grasp of those plun- 

" I have not asked any one, Mistress Dorothy. I am go- 
ing alone on our own old farm-horse." 

" You travel scores of miles alone, and into the midst 
of the king's army, Rachel 1 " said Aunt Dorothy. 

" I have taken counsel, Mistress Dorothy," said Rachel, 
calmly, and, looking up, Aunt Dorothy met that in Rachel's 
quiet eyes which she understood, and she made no further 


remonstrance. " We will write letters to Roger/' she said, 
after a pause. 

In a short time they were ready, with one from me to 
Lettice Davenant. 

Neither my aunts nor I slept much that night. We were 
resolving various plans for helping Rachel, each unknown 
to the other. I had thought of a letter to a friend of my 
father's who lived half-way between us and Oxford; and 
rising softly in the night, without telling any one, I wrote 
it For I had removed to Roger's chamber while he was 
away ; it seemed to bring me nearer to him. Then, before 
daybreak, feeling sure Rachel would be watching for the 
first streaks of light, I crept out of our house to hers. She 
was dressed, and was quietly packing up the great Bible, 
which lay always on the table, and laying it in the cup- 

" Happy Rachel ! " I said, kissing her, " to be old enough 
to dare to go/' 

" There is always some work, sweetheart," said she, 
" for every season, not to be done before or after. That 
is why we need never be afraid of growing old." The 
Draytons and the Davenants. 

French critic and novelist; born near 
Charters, October 8, 1798; died at Venice, 
Italy, July 18, 1873. For many years he was the 
editor of the Journal des D^bats and a contributor to 
the Revue des Deux Mondes. In 1841 he was ap- 
pointed Professor of Foreign Languages and Litera- 
ture in the College of France. He showed himself 
an able critic of English literature, and reproduced 
for the Revue Britannique many articles from Eng- 
lish reviews. His works have been collected under the 


title Studies in Comparative Literature, eleven volumes. 
Among these are Studies in Spain; Studies m 
America Notabilities in France and England; 
Studies on Shakespeare; Marie Stuart, and f Aretin; 
Galileo, Sa Vie, Son Proces, et Ses Contemporains. 


France, from the first germ of being, was not endowed 
with the calculating spirit the talent for affairs, I name 
it. Her genius was for glory. The Celts of the ancient 
world were famed as brilliant adventurers. The sword, 
wielded by them, glittered throughout the East and West, 
and they were known as the most valiant of warriors. 
Such is the Gallic character. The Gallo-Roman, scarcely 
modified by twenty centuries' affiliation, under Bonaparte, 
pointed her sabre at the base of the pyramids. This son 
of the army of Brennus shook the capital, but it trembled 
only for a moment In spite of affiliation of diverse Gauls 
from the North and South, who are grouped by conquest 
around the central country, does not France remain the 
same? pre-eminently social, living with others and for 
others, more alive to honor than fortune, to vanity than 
power. These are their ineffaceable elements. We be- 
came Romans as the Russians became French. What we 
borrowed, above all, from our masters, was not their dis- 
cipline, but their elegance, their obedience, their oratory, 
and their poetry. Christianity afterward diffused mnong 
us her sweet charities; the charm of social life was aug- 
mented. In fine, the German irruption inspired France 
with a taste for military prowess ; but still she had a war- 
like garrulity, if I may so style it, easy and gay, which 
was evinced by the narrations of our first chroniclers and 
fablers. In the meantime, there was no place for the 
spirit of affairs. 

Chivalry, elsewhere serious, was with us a charming 
and delightful parade. At the epoch of the Crusades our 
seigneurs put their chateaux in pledge, and joined in the 
Holy Wars. In' the sixteenth century Francis L, who 
spent all in beautiful costumes, had not money to pay his 
VOL. V. 22 


ransom. Under Henry IV. the counts sold their property, 
'and wore their estates upon their shoulders; as said Foen- 
este. Under Louis XIII. was borrowed the grave cour- 
tesy of the Spaniard, his gallantry, his romantic dramas 
and dramatic romances. The same passion, augmented, in 
the reign of Louis XIV., a remarkable epoch in France. 
Then all the ancient elements of the French character 
shone with intense lustre. Sociability became general, 
talent was honored, the clergy civilized the people, and ob- 
tained for recompense that pontificate of which Bossuet 
was first crowned. The fine arts satisfied the national 
vanity, and even our defects appeared a generous efflores- 
cence, which consoled a people easy to console. 

As to good financial administration, the progress of in- 
dustry, the development of the business talent in France, 
I sought it in vain in her history. Some partial efforts 
and heroic starts, little supported, seemed to betray that 
our nation had no aptitude for modest endeavor and con- 
tentment with moderate success, The financial history of 
France is composed of a series of mad speculations. 
In vain Colbert and Louis XIV. pretended to foster in- 
dustry. France, in servitude, possessed not the first con- 
dition. Industry, daughter of independence, was doomed 
to attempt her achievements in trammels. Colbert put 
commerce under regulations and protecting stratagems, 
when the invasion of France and political events extin- 
guished her manufactures in their cradle. During the re- 
gency, many futile attempts were made to create industry. 
Societies were formed; galleons were expedited to the 
Indies. Government was the godfather and victim to the 
jugglery which duped itself in duping others. 

During all this time England, her credit established, 
founded free corporations, under the enlightened reign of 
William the Third. Later, in France, the combination of 
riches and labor could do nothing. Voltaire, Diderot, and 
all the learned men, thought only of destroying the rotten 
social organization. From 1789 to 1793 the* 1 " previsions 
were justified, and their efforts responded to. Soon fol- 
lowed the fourteen years of the republic the maximum 
and the guillotine. Nothing of all this could create a 



healthy industry, but the spoliations turned to the profit 
of energetic men. Napoleon reigned, and he thought to 
sustain industry by the war which destroyed it In de- 
priving France of exterior resources, she was forced to re- 
sort to artificial means to supply her needs. But England, 
in her struggle, maintained her resources. . . . It is 
impossible not to recognize that the antecedents of France 
are opposed to the development of this new social phasis, 
called the industrial. Industry cannot result in riches of 
an individual or a people, excepting under certain moral 
conditions. Is France possessed of them? 

She possesses exactly the contrary elements. France 
was in a chaotic state a fusion of all ranks no social 
basis, no principle, no convictions, but a morbid state of 
exhaustion and weariness. There was no centre in so- 
ciety, no point to lean upon. Each man was his own cen- 
tre, as he might and could be. Scarcely had one obtained 
an individuality, by riches, by credit, or fame, to be able to 
form a group of individualities impregnated with his prin- 
ciples, than, the apprenticeship served, these satellites 
would teach themselves, and form centres in their turn. 
They called that independence, but it was dissolution. 
There is such liberty when the elements of the body are 
scattered in the tomb. From 1825 to 1840, there were 
everywhere little centres, without force, sufficient attrac- 
tion, or radiation. There had not been, since Napoleon, 
one centre, political, intellectual, moral, which had the 
least solidity a theory that was complete, a light which 
was not vacillating. Notabilities in France and England. 

COMTE DE, a French statesman; bora at St 
Malo, September 14, 1768; died at Paris, July 
4, 1848. After quitting the College of Rennes he 
went to America; but on hearing of the arrest of 


Louis XVI. returned to France and joined the army. 
He was compelled to flee to England, where he re- 
mained for several years. In 1801, soon after his 
return to France, he published Atala, a prose epic 
intended to delineate Indian life and love in America. 
This work brought its author immediate fame, which 
was heightened by the appearance, in 1802, of his 
Genius of Christianity. Napoleon appointed him Sec- 
retary of the Embassy at Rome, and afterward 
Ambassador to the Republic of Valais, a post which 
Chateaubriand resigned on the murder of Due 
d'Enghien. He then travelled to the Holy Land, and 
on his return, in 1807, published Rene, another 
episode of The Natchez. The Last of the Abencer- 
rage appeared in 1809, The Martyrs and The Pil- 
grimage from Paris to Jerusalem in 1811. His timely 
pamphlet, Bonaparte and the Bourbons, procured 
him a peerage, and made him a Minister of State. 
He was successively ambassador to Great Britain, to 
Verona, and to Rome. The Natchez, the remainder 
of his prose epic, was published in 1826. The last 
years of his life were employed in completing his 
Mtmoires d'Outre Tombe, published after his death. 


Night 'darkened on the skies, the songs and dances 
ended, the half-consumed piles threw but a glimmering 
light, which reflected the shadows of a few wandering 
savages. At last all was asleep, and, as the busy hum of 
men decreased, the roaring of the storm augmented, and 
succeeded to the confused din of voices. 

I felt, in spite of myself, that momentary sleep which 
suspends for a time the sufferings of the wretched. I 
dreamt that a generous hand tore away my bonds, and 
I experienced that sweet sensation so delicious to the 


freed prisoner, whose limbs were bruised by galling fet- 
ters. The sensation became so powerful that I opened 
my eyes. By the light of the moon, whose propitious 
rays darted through the fleecy clouds, I perceived a tall 
figure dressed in white, and silently occupied in untying 
my chains. I was going to call aloud, when a well- 
known hand stopped my mouth. One single cord re- 
mained, which it seemed impossible to break without 
waking the guard that lay stretched upon it. Atala 
pulled it; the warrior, half-awake, started; Atala stood 
motionless; he stared, took her for the genius of the 
ruins, and fell aghast on the ground, shutting his eyes, 
and invoking his manitou. 

The cord is broken. I rise and follow my deliverer. 
But how many perils surround us I now we are ready to 
stumble against some savage sleeping in the shade ; some- 
times called by a guard! Atala answers, altering her 
voice ; children shriek, dogs bark ; we have scarcely passed 
the fatal enclosure, when the most terrific yells resound 
through the forest, the whole camp awakes, the savages 
light their torches to pursue us, and we hasten our steps. 
When the first dawn of morn appeared, we were already 
far in the desert. Great Spirit ! thou knowest how great 
was my felicity when I found myself once more in the 
wilderness with Atala, with my deliverer, my beloved 
Atala. . . . 

Intoxication, which amongst savages lasts long, and 
is a kind of malady, prevented our enemies, no doubt, 
from pursuing us for the first day. If they sought for 
us afterward, they probably went toward the western 
side, thinking we were gone down the Meschacebe. But 
we had bent our course toward the fixed star, guiding 
our steps by the moss on the oaks. 

We soon perceived how little we had gained by my 
deliverance. The desert now displayed its boundless 
solitudes before us ; inexperienced in a lonely life, In the 
midst of forests, wandering from the right path, we 
strayed, helpless and forlorn. While I gazed on Atala, 
I often thought of the history of Hagar in the desert of 
Beersheba, which Lopez had made me read, aad 


happened in those remote times when men lived three 
ages of oaks. Atala worked me a cloak with the second 
bark of the ash, for I was almost naked; with porcu- 
pine's hair she embroidered moccasins made of the skins 
of musk-rats. I in my turn, took care of her attire; 
for her I wove in wreaths those purple mallows we found 
on the desolated graves of Indians; or I adorned her 
snowy bosom with the red grains of azalea, and then 
smiled, contemplating her heavenly U-auty. If we came 
to a river, we passed it on rafts, or swam across, Atala 
leaning her hand on my shoulder; we Deemed two loving 
swans riding over the lakes. 

Almost all the trees in the Floridas, especially the 
cedars and holm-oaks, are covered with a white moss, 
which from the uppermost branches reaches down to the 
ground. If by moonlight you discover on the barren 
savanna a lonely oak, enrobed with that white drapery, 
you would fancy a spectre enveloped in his shroud. The 
scenery is still more picturesque by day; when crowds 
of flies, shining insects, and of colibries, green parrots, 
and azure jays, hovering about these woolly mosses, give 
them the appearance of rich embroideries, wrought with 
the most brilliant colors on a snowy ground, by the skil- 
ful hand of Europeans. It was under those shady bow- 
ers, prepared in the wilderness by the Great Spirit, that 
we refreshed our weary limbs at noon. Never did the 
seven wonders of the ancient world equal those lofty 
cedars, and waved by the breeze they rock to sleep the 
feathered inhabitants in their airy abodes, and from their 
foliage issue melancholy sounds. 

At night we lit a great fire, and with the bark of 
palm-trees, tied to four stakes, we constructed the travel- 
ling hut If I shot a wild turkey, a ring-dove, or a 
speckled pheasant, suspended by a twig before the flam- 
ing oak, the hunter's prey was turned by the gale. We 
ate those mosses called rock-tripes, the sweet bark of 
birch, and the heads of maize which tastes like peaches 
and raspberries; black walnut trees, sumach, and maples 
supplied us with wine. Sometimes I plucked among the 
reeds one of those plants, whose flower, shaped like a 


horn, contained a draught of the purest dew; and we 
thanked Providence for having, on a tender stock, placed 
a flower containing such a limpid drink, amid putrid 
marshes, as he has placed hope in a heart wrung with 
sorrow, and as he makes virtue flow from the miseries 
of life. Atala. 


The bier descends, the spotless roses too, 
The father's tribute in his saddest hour 
O Earth ! that bore them both, thou hast thy due - 
The fair young girl and flower. 

Give them not back unto a world again, 

Where mourning, grief and agony have power, 
Where winds destroy, and suns malignant reign 
That fair young girl and flower. 

Lightly thou sleepest, young Elisa, now, 

Nor fear'st the burning heat', nor chilling shower; 
They both have perished in their morning glow 
The fair young girl and flower. 

But he, thy sire, whose furrowed brow is pale, 

Bends, lost in sorrow, o'er thy funeral bower; 
And Time the old oak's roots doth now assail. 
O fair young girl and flower! 

an American novelist; born at Chicago, 111., 
March 24, 1865. He is a Chatfield by his 
mother, Adelaide, granddaughter of Captain Chatfield 
of the New York militia of 1812, and direct 
descendant of Oliver Chatfield of the Morgan rifle- 


men of revolutionary fame. From his father, Henry 
Hobart Taylor, and from his mother's brother, W. 
B. Chatfield, he inherited the double fortune of the 
families which are commemorated in the compound 
name Chatfield-Taylor. He was educated at Cornell, 
and upon his graduation, in 1886, adopted the profes- 
sion of letters. In 1890 he married Rose, daughter of 
ex-Senator Farwell. For a time he owned and edited 
the Chicago weekly review America, which he dis- 
posed of in 1891. During the same year he wrote a 
series of letters from Europe to the Morning News 
of Chicago, and another series of letters from Europe 
to the Record of that city. His articles on Spain and 
on the discovery of America, published in the Cosmo- 
politan, and his translation, at the request of Paul 
Bourget, of an article on the World's Fair for the 
same magazine, were well received. During the Co- 
lumbus Centennial year he was appointed consul in 
Chicago by the Spanish government ; which also gave 
him the decoration of "Isabella the Catholic." His 
novel With Edged Tools, was published in 1891. An 
American Peeress, which appeared in 1893, was pub- 
lished serially in the New York Herald and soon went 
through two editions in book form in America, besides 
being republished in England and translated into Hun- 
garian. The appearance, in 1895, of Two Women and 
a Pool, brought upon the author much censure, as 
dealing with the unspeakable; or, as some put it, "the 
intensely modern/' In the first of these three stories 
an unworthy hero is allowed to drift along, without 
emotion or tragedy, to the bad; in the second, the 
strong, simple love of a sweet nature outlives every- 
thing; in the third, "the fool" is in love with two 



Winding through the quiet village of Warrington, the 
highway from Petworth to Guildford skirts along the 
walls of the park; and, dividing., within sight of the gray 
pinnacles of Warrington Court, threads its way in two 
directions, the one through Chichester to Portsmouth, 
the other on to sleepy, wave-washed Bognor. Leaving 
the highway at the lodge gate, the road winds through 
the park for a full mile and a half, passing forest glades 
and rolling meadows of grass, green as only English 
turf can be; now shaded by the spreading branches of 
gnarled oaks, or giant yew-trees, now affording an un- 
obstructed view of swelling, wavelike downs, rich with 
browsing flocks of famous Southdown sheep, and all the 
while it is gently rising until the dull gray stones of War- 
rington Court peep through the trees. 

After traversing this last bit of forest, the road leads 
on past the surrounding belt of lawn and flower-beds, 
terraces and hedgerows, to the great iron gateway; then, 
crossing the moat and passing underneath the arched 
doorway to the stones of the courtyard, it ends before 
the entrance of the grand hall. 

Warrington Court, with its rambling suites of rooms, 
stretched out through countless wings and maze-like cor- 
ridors, through which one's steps resound in hollow 
echoes from the vaulted roofs, is a house where days of 
wandering and searching might not teach one his way 
about; and as for acquaintance with all the* mysterious 
recesses which the house contains, probably no resident, 
unless it be the housekeeper, has ever penetrated them 

There is the great oak-vaulted hall with its pillared 
chimney-piece and ponderous hearthstone, where the log 
burns at Yule-tide, and the fire-light plays upon the 
polished steel of ancestral armor, standing silent and 
ghost-like in the distance, and there is the smaller hall, 
adjoining with its grand stairway jealously guarded 
by dragon-headed newels leading upward past the dimmed 
portraits of wigged and powdered Vincents, to the land- 


ing of the floor above, where antlers and boars' heads, 
hanging from the sombre walls,, testify to the prowess 
of family Nimrods in years gone by. 

This is Warrington Court, the home of the Vincents, 
and the seat of eleven generations of Earls of Warring- 
ton. An American Peeress. 

^HATTERTON, THOMAS, an English poet; 
born at Bristol, November 20, 1752; died at 
London, August 25, 1770. He was the 
posthumous son of a chanter in the Bristol Cathedral, 
and was educated at a charity school in that city. In 
1767 he was apprenticed to an attorney. At the open- 
ing of a new bridge over the Avon, in 1768, Chatterton 
sent to the editor of a Bristol newspaper an account 
of " the mayor's first passing over the old bridge/' in 
the reign of Henry II., professedly copied from an 
ancient manuscript. This was followed by numerous 
letters and fragments of ancient history, and by many 
poems purporting to be by an ancient monk, Thomas 
Rowley, which Chatterton professed to have copied 
from papers found in an old chest. He then sent to 
Horace Walpole a specimen of the Poems of Thomas 
Rowley. In the spring of 1770 Chatterton went to 
London, and engaged in literary work, writing politi- 
cal letters, satires, and poems, which showed great 
versatility ; but his contributions were unpaid for, and 
starvation stared him in the face. Too proud to ac- 
knowledge his bitter poverty, he shut himself in his 
attic room, destroyed his manuscripts and committed 
suicide by poison. 


The poems of Chatterton, written under the name 
of " Rowley," comprise the tragedy of Mlla; The Exe- 
cution of Sir Charles Bawdin; The Battle of Hastings; 
The Tournament, and Canynge's Feast. He also left 
a fragment of a dramatic poem, Goddwyn. There is 
throughout an attempt to give an air of antiquity to 
these verses by an affectation of archaic spelling. 
This has been retained in the extracts here given from 
the poems of " the marvellous boy, the sleepless soul 
who perished in his pride : " 


Oh! synge untoe mie roundelaie, 
O ! droppe the brynie tear wythe mee, 
Daunce na moe atte hallie daie, 
Lycke a reynynge ryver bee; 

Mie love ys dedde, 

Gon to hys deathe-bedde, 

Al under the wyllowe tree. 

Blacke hys cryne as the wyntere nyghte, 
Whyte hys rode as the summer snowe, 
Rodde hys face as the mornynge lyghte, 
Cale he lyes ynne the grave below; 
Mie love ys dedde, etc. 

Swote histynge as the throstles note, 
Quycke ynn daunce as thoughte canne bee, 
Defte hys taboure, codgelle stote, 
O ! hee lyes bie the wyllowe tree ; 
Mie love ys dedde } etc. 

Harke! the ravenne flappes hys wynge, 
In the briered delle belowe; 
Harke! the dethe-owle loude dothe synge, 
To the nyghte-mares as heie goe; 
Mie love ys dedde, etc. 


See! the whyte moone sheenes onne hie; 
Whyterre ys mie true loves shroude; 
Whyterre yanne the mornynge skie, 
Whyterre yanne the evenynge cloude; 
Mie love ys dedde, etc. 

Heere, uponne mie true love's grave, 
Schalle the baren fleurs be layde, 
Nee one hallie Seyncte to save 
Al the celness of a mayde, 
Mie love ys dedde, etc. 

Wythe mie hondes File dente the brieres 
Rounde his hallie corse to gre, 
Ouphante fairie, lyghte youre fyres, 
Heere mie boddie sty lie schalle bee. 
Mie love ys dedde f etc. 

Comme, wythe acorne-coppe and thorne, 
Drayne mie hartys bloode awaie; 
Lyfe and all yttes goode I scorne, 
Daunce bie nite, or feaste bie daie. 
Mie love ys dedde, etc. 

Waterre wytches, crownede wythe reytes, 
Bere mee to yer leathelle tyde. 
I die ! I comme ! mie true love waytes. 
Those the damselle spake and dyed. 


In Virgyne the sweltre sun gan sheene, 

And hotte upon the mees did caste his raie: 

The apple rodded from its palie greene, 

And the mole peare did bende the leafy spraie; 

The peede chelandri sunge the livelong daie; 

'Twas nowe the pride, the manhode of the yeare, 

And eke the grounde was dighte in its mose defte aumere, 


The sun was glemeing in the midde of dale, 

Deadde still the aire, and eke the welken blue 

When from the sea arist in drear arraie 

A hepe of cloudes of sable sullen hue, 

The which full fast unto the woodlande drewe, 

Hiltring attenes the sunnis fetyve face, 

And the blacke tempeste swolne and gathered up apace. 

Beneathe an holme, faste by a pathwaie side, 

Which dyde unto Seyncte Godwine j s covent lede, 

A hapless pilgrim moneynge dyd abide, 

Pore in his viewe, ungentle in his weede, 

Longe bretful of the miseries of neede, 

Where from the hail-stone coulde the aimer flie? 

He had no housen there, ne anie covent nie. 

Look in his gloomed face, his sprighte there scanne; 

How woe-be-gone, how withered, forwynd, deade ! 

Haste to thie church-glebe-house, asshrewed manne! 

Haste to thie Viste, thie onlie dortbure bede. 

Cale, as the claie whiche will gre on thi hedde, 

Is Charitie and Love aminge highe elves; 

Knightis and Barons live for pleasure and themselves. 

The gathered storm is rype; the bigge drops falle; 

The forswat meadowes smethe and drenche the raine; 

The comyng ghastness do the cattle pall, 

And the full flockes are drivynge ore the plaine; 

Dashde from the cloudes the waters flott againe, 

The welkin opes; the yellow levynne flies; 

And the hot fierie smothe in the wide lowings dies, 

Liste ! now the thunders rattling chymmynge sound 

Cheves slowlie on, and then embollen clangs, 

Shakes the hie spyre, and losst, dispended, drown'd, 

Still on the gallard eare of terroure hanges; 

The windes are up; the lofty elmen swanges; 

Again the levynne and the thunder poures, 

And the full cloudes are braste attenes in st'onen showers, 


Spurreynge his palfrie oere the watrie plaine, 

The Abbote of Seyncte Godwyne's convente came; 

His Chapournette was drented with the reine, 

And his pencte gyrdle met with mickle shame; 

He aynewards tolde his bederoll at the same; 

The storme encreasen, and he drew aside, 

With the mist almes-craver neere to the holme to bide. 

His cope was all of Lyncolne clothe so fyne, 
With a gold button fasten'd neere his chynne, 
His antremete was edged with golden twynne. 
And his shoone pyks a loverds mighte have binne ; 
Full well it shewne he thoughten coste no sinne: 
The trammels of the palfrye pleased his sighte, 
For the horse-millanare his head with roses dighte. 

An almes, sir prieste! the droppynge pilgrim saide, 

! let me waite within your c.ovente dore, 

Till the sunne sheneth hie al ove our heade, 

And the loude tempeste of the aire is o'er; 

Helpless and ould am I alas ! and poor : 

Ne house, ne friend, ne monnaie in my pouche; 

All yatte I calle my owne is this my silver crouche. 

Varlet, replyd the Abbatte, cease your dinne; 
This is no season almes and prayers to give; 
Mie porter never lets a f aitour in ; 
None touch mie rynge who not in honor live. 
And now the sonne with the blacke clouds did stryve, 
And shettynge on the grounde his glairie raie, 
The Abbatte spurrde his steede, and eftsoons roadde 

Once moe the skie was blacke, the thounder rolde ; 

Faste reyneynge o'er the plaine a prieste was seen; 

Ne dighte full proude, ne buttoned up in golde : 

His cope and jape were graie, and eke were clene; 

A Limitoure he was of order seene; 

And from the pathwaie side then turned hee, 

Where the pore aimer laie beneathe the holmen tree. 


An almes, sir priest ! the droppynge pilgrim sayde, 

For sweete Seyncte Marie and your order sake. 

The Limitoure then loosen'd his pouch e threade, 

And did thereoute a groate of silrer take: 

The mister pilgrim did for hailing shake. 

Here take this silver, it maie eathe thie care; 

We are Goddes stewards all, nete of oure owne we bare. 

But ah ! unhailie pilgrim, lerne of me, 

Scathe anie give a rentrolle to their Lorde, 

Here take my semecope, thou arte bare I see; 

'Tis thine; the Seynctes will give me mie rewarde. 

He left the pilgrim, and his waie aborde. 

Virgynne and hallie Seyncte, who sitte yn gloure, 

Or give the mittee will, or give the gode man power! 


Whanne Freedom dreste yn blodde-steyned veste, 

To everie knyghte her warre-songe sunge, 
Uponne her hedde wylde wedes nere spredde; 
A gorie aulace bye her honge, 

She daunced onne the heathe: 

She hearde the voice of deathe; 
Pale-eyned affryghte, hys harte of sylver hue, 
In vayne assayled her bosomme to acale; 
She hearde onflemed the shriekynge voice of woe, 
And sadnesse ynne the owlette shake the dale. 

She shook the burled speere, 

On hie she jeste her sheelde, 

Her foemen all appere, 

And flizze alonge the feelde. 
Power, wythe his heafod straught ynto the skyes, 
Heys speere a sonne-beame, and hys sheelde a st'arre, 
Alyche twaie brendeynge gronfyres rolls hys eyes, 
Chaftes with his gronne feete and soundes to war. 

She syttes upon a rocke, 

She bendes before hys speere, 

She ryses from the shocke, 

Wieldynge her owne yn ayre. 


Hard as the thonder dothe she drive ytte on, 

Wytte scillye wympled gies ytte to hys crowne, 

Hys longe sharpe speere, hys spreddynge sheelde ys gon, 

He falles, and fallynge rolleth thousandes downe. 

War, goare-faced war, bie envie burld, arist, 

Hys feerie heaulme noddynge to the ayre, 

Tenne bloddie arrowes ynne hys streynynge fyste. 

Goddwyn a Fragment 

|HAUCER, GEOFFREY, an English poet ; born at 
London, about 1340; died there, October 25, 
1400. Of his childhood nothing is certainly 
known except that he was the son of a vintner. His 
name appears in 1357 in the household-book of the 
Lady Elizabeth, wife of Prince Lionel, son of King 
Edward III, from which it has been inferred that 
Chaucer was a page in the royal family. In 1359 he 
was made prisoner in the .war with France, and was 
ransomed by the English King. The next positive 
mention of him occurs in 1366, when he was one of 
the squires of the King, and was already married to 
a sister of Katharine Swynford, the mistress and sub- 
sequently the wife of the King's son, John of Gaunt, 
Duke of Lancaster. We find Chaucer subsequently 
engaged somewhat prominently in public affairs. In 
1372 he was one of the envoys sent to Genoa to ar- 
range a commercial treaty with that republic. By this 
time he had certainly gained repute as a poet, for he 
received a grant of a pitcher of wine a day equiva- 
lent to what afterward became the laureateship ; the 
Duke of Lancaster also bestowed upon him a pension 



of 10 (equivalent to something like $500 at the 
present day). Under the powerful protection of John 
of Gaunt the fortunes of Chaucer flourished for sev- 
eral years ; he held lucrative posts in what we should 
now style the customs, and in 1386 was returned to 
Parliament for the shire of Kent At the close of this 
year, John of Gaunt being" employed on the Continent, 
Chaucer was removed from his post in the customs, 
and appears to have fallen into pecuniary straits. He 
is supposed to have written The Canterbury Tales at 
this period. John of Gaunt, returning to England, 
took up the cause of Chaucer, procured for him the 
appointment of Clerk of the King's Works, and fur- 
nished him an annuity of 20. Still later, and toward 
the end of his life, Chaucer received from the King 
a grant of a tun of wine a year, and a pension of 40 
marks about 27. Chaucer was buried in West- 
minster Abbey, being the first of the long line of poets 
to whom that honor has been awarded. 

Chaucer wrote several unimportant prose works, 
among which is a translation of Boethius's Consola- 
tion of Philosophy. His principal poems are The 
Court of Love and The Flower and The Leaf, the 
genuineness of which has been called in question by 
recent critics ; The Remount of the Rose; Troilus and 
Creseide; The Assembly of Foules; The Booke of 
the Dutchesse; The House of Fame; Chaucer's 
Dream; The Legend of Good Women; The Complaint 
of Mccrs and Venice; The Cuckoo and the Nightin- 
gale, and The Canterbury Tales, upon which his fame 
mainly rests. The plot of The Canterbury Tales is 
quite simple: A company of nine-and-twenty pil- 
grims bound for the shrine of St. Thomas a Becket, in 
Canterbury, find themselves at the Tabard Inn in 
VOL. V. 23 


Southwark, and to pass the time of their journey, 
agree each to relate a story, the landlord promising 
that the one who tells the best one shall upon their re- 
turn have his supper free of cost. The Tales were 
first printed about seventy-five years after the death 
of Chaucer, and frequently since. They have been 
modernized by several poets of repute, sometimes to 
such an extent as to be hardly recognizable. The ex- 
tracts which here follow are reproduced precisely as 
they appear in old manuscripts : 


Whan that Aprille with hise schoures soote 
The droghte of March hath perced to the roote, 
And bathed euery veyne in swich licour, 
Of which vertu engendred is the flour; 
Whan Zephirus eek with his sweete breath 
Inspired hath in every holt and heeth 
The tendre croppes, and the yonge sonne 
Hath in the Ram his half (e) cours yronne, 
And smale foweles maken melodye, 
That slepen all the nyght with open eye, 
So priketh hem nature in hir corages: 
Thanne longen folk to goon on pilgrimages, 
And Palmeres for to seken straunge strondes, 
To fern halwes kowthe in sondry londes; 
And specially, from euery shires ende 
Of Engelond, to Caunterbury they wende, 
The hooly blisful martir for to seke 
That hem hath holpen whan that they were seeke. 
Bifil that in that seson, on a day 
, In Southwerk at the Tabard as I lay, 
Redy to wenden on my pilgrymage 
To Caunterbury with ful deuout corage, 
At nyght were come in to that hostelrye, 
Wei nyne and twenty in the compaignye, 
Of sondry folk, by aventure yfalle 
In felawshipe, and pilgrimes were they alle, 


That toward Caunterbury wolden ryde. 

The chambres and the stables weren wyde, 

And wel we weren esed atte beste. 

And shortly whan the sonne was to reste, 

So hadde I spoken with hem everychon, 

That I was of hir felawshipe anon, 

And made forward erly for to ryse, 

To take our wey ther as I you deuyse. 

But nathelees, whil I have tyme and space, 

Er that I ferther in this tale pace, 

My thynketh it accordaunt to reson 

To telle yow all the condicion 

Of ech of hem, so as it seemed me, 

And which they were and of what degree; 

And eek in what array that they were inne; 

And at a knyght than wol I first bigynne. 


A knyght ther was, and that a worthy man, 

That fro the tyme that he first bigan 

To riden out, he lotted chiualrie, 

Trouthe and honour, fredom and curteisie. 

Fful worthy was he in his lordes werre, 

And thereto hadde he riden, no man ferre, 

As wel in cristendom as in Hethenesse, 

And euere honoured for his worthynesse. 

At Alisaundre he was whan it was wonne. 

Fful ofte tyme he hadde the bord bigonne 

Abouen alle nacions in Pruce. 

In Lettow hadde he reysed and in Ruce, 

No cristen man so oft of his degree. 

In Gernade at the seege eek hadde he be 

Of Algezir, and riden in Belmarye. 

At Lyeys was he and at Satalye 

Whan they were wonne; and in the grete See 

At many a noble Armee hadde he be. 

At mortal batailles hadde he been fiftene, 

And foughten for oure feith at Tramyssene 

In lystis thries, and ay slayn his foo. 

This ilke worthy knyght hadde been also 


Somtyme with the lord of Palatye 
Agayn another hethen in Turkye 
And eaeremoore he hadde a souereyn prys. 
And though that he were worthy he was wyse, 
And of his port as meeke as is a mayde. 
He neuere yet no vileynye ne sayde 
In al his Ifye, vn to no maner wight. 
He was a verray parfit gentil knyght'. 
But for to tellen yow of his array, 
His horse weren goode, but he was nat gay. 
Of ffustian he wered a gypon 
Al bismotered with his habergeon, 
Ffor he was late ycome from his viage, 
And wente for to doon his pilgrymage. 


With him there was his sone a yong Squier, 
A louyere, and a lusty Bachelor, 
With lokkes crulle as they were leyd in presse 
Of twenty yeer of Age he was I gesse. 
Of his stature he was of euene lengthe, 
And wonderly delyuere, and of greet strengthe 
And he hadde been somtyme in chyuachie 
In Fflaundres, in Artoys, and Pycardie, 
.And born him weel as of so litel space, 
In hope to stonden in his lady grace. 
Embroudered was he, as it were a meede, 
Al ful of ffresshe floures whyte and reede. 
Syngyenge he was, or floytynge al the day; 
He was as ffressh as is the Monthe of May. 
Short was his gowne, with sleues longe and wyde. 
Wei koude he sitte on hors, and faire ryde. 
He koude songes make and wel endite, 
Juste and eek daunce, and weel purtreye and write. 
So hoote he louede, that by nyghtertale. 
He slepte namoore than dooth a nyghtyngale. 
Curteis he was, lowly, and seruysable, 
And carf biforn his fader at the table. . . . 



Ther was also a Nonne, a Prioresse, 
That of her smylyng was ful symple and coy; 
Hire gretteste ooth was but by seint Loy; 
And she was cleped madame Eglentyne. 
Fful weel she soong the seruice dyuyne, 
Entuned in her nose ful semeely; 
And ifrenssh she spak ful faire and fetisly, 
After the scole of Stratford atte Powe, 
Ffor ffrensh of Parys was to hire unknowe 
At mete wel y taught was she with alle; 
She leet no morsel from hir Hppes falle, 
Ne wette hir fyngres in hir sauce depe. 
Wel koude she carie a morsel and wel kepe 
That no drope ne fille vp on hire brist 
In curteisie was set ful muchel hir list 
Hire oure Hppe wyped she so clene, 
That in hir coppe ther was no ferthyng sene 
Of grece whan she dronken hadde hir draughte. 
Fful semeely after hir mete she raught'e. 
And sikerly she was of greet desport; 
And ful pleasaunt, and amyable of port 
And peyned hire to countrefete cheere 
Of Courte and to been estatlich of manere 
And to been holden digne of reuerence. 
But for to speken of hire conscience, 
She was so charitable and so pitous, 
She wolde wepe if that she saugh a Mous 
Kaught in a trappe, if it were deed or bledde. 
Of smale houndes hadde she, that she fedde 
With rosted flessh or Milk and wastel breed. 
But soore wepte she if any of hem were deed, 
Or if men smoot it with a yerde smerte, 
And al was conscience and tender herte. 
Fful semyly hir wympul pynched was; 
Hire nose tretys, hir eyen greye as glas; 
Hir mouth ful smal and ther to softe and reed; 
But sikerly she hadde a fair forheed. 
It was almost a spanne brood I trowe; 


Ffor hardily she was not vndergrowe. 

Fful fetys was hir cloke as I was war. 

Of smal coral aboute hir Arm she bar 

A peire of bedes gauded al with grene, 

And ther on heng a brooch of gold ful slieue, 

On which ther was first write a crowned A, 

And after Amor vincit omnia. 


A Clerk ther was of Oxenford also, 
That vn to logyk hadde longe ygo, 
And leene was his hors as is a rake., 
And he was not right fat, I undertake; 
But looked holwe and ther to sobrely. 
Fful thredbare was his overest courtepy, 
Ffor he hadde geten hym yet no benefice, 
Ne was so worldly for to haue office. 
Ffor hym was leuere haue at his beddes heed 
Twenty bookes clad in blak and reed, 
Of Aristotle and his Philosophic, 
Than robes riche or fithele or gay sautrie. 
But al be that he was a Philosiphre, 
Yet hadde he but litle gold in cofre; 
But al that he myghte of his freendes hente 
On bookes and his lernynge he it spente. 
And bisily gan for the soules preye 
Of hem that yaf hym wher with to scoleye. 
Of studie took he moost cure and moost heede. 
Noght o word spak he moore than was neede; 
And that was seyd in forme and reuerence 
And short and quyk and full of hy sentence. 
Sownynge in moral vertu was his speche, 
And gladly wolde he lerne and gladly teche. 


A Sergeant of the Lawe, war and wys, 
That often hadde been at the Parvys 
Ther was also, full riche of excellence, 
Discreet he was and great reuerence: 


He seemed swich hise wordes weren so wise 

Justice he was ful often in Assise, 

By patente and by pleyn commissioun ; 

Ffor his science and for his heigh renoun, 

Of fees and robes hadde he many oon. 

So greet a purchasour was nowher noon* 

All was fee symple to hym in effect, 

His purchasyng myghte nat been infect. 

Nowher so bisy a man as he ther nas. 

And yet he semed bisier than he was. 

In termes hadde he caas and doomes alle, 

That from the tyme of Kyng William were yfalle, 

Ther-to he koude endit'e and make^a thyng 

Ther koude no wight pynchen at his writyng. 

And every statut koude he pleyn by rote 

He rood but hoomly in a medlee cote 

Girt with a ceint of silk, with barres smale, 

Of his array telle I no lenger tale. 


A Frankeleyn was in his compaignye; 

Whit was his heed as is a dayesye. 

Of his complexion he was sangwyn,^ 

Well loued he by the morwe a sope in wytu 

To lyven in delit was euere his wone, - 

For he was Epicurus owene sone, 

That heeld opinion that pleyn delit 

Was verray 'felicitee parfit 

An householdere, and that a greet, was he ; 

Seint Julian was he in his contree. 

His breed, his Ale, was alweys after oon; 

A better envyned man was neuere noon. 

With oute bake mete was neuere his hous, 

Of fissh and flessh, and that so plenteous, 

It snewed in his hous of mete and drynke, 

Of alle deyntees that men koude thynke. 

After the sondry sesons of the yeer, 

So chaunged he his mete and his soper, 

Fful many a fat partrich hadde he in Mewe, 

And many a Breern and many a luce in Stewe. 


Wo was his Cook but if his sauce were 
Poynaunt and sharpe, and redy al his geere. 
His table dormant in his halle alway 
Stood redy covered al the longe day. 
At sessions ther was the lord and sire; 
Fful ofte tyme he was knyghte of the shire; 
An Anlaas and a gipser al of silk 
Heeng at his girdel white as morne Milk. 
A shirreue hadde he been, and Countour; 
Was nowher such a worthy Vauasour. . . 


With vs ther was a Doctbur of Phisik, 
In al this world ne was ther noon hym lik 
To speke of phisik and Surgerye ; 
Ffor he was grounded in Astronomye. 
He kept his pacient a ful greet deel 
In houres by his magyk natureel. 
Wei koude he fortunen the Ascendent 
Of hise ymages for his pacient. 
He knew the cause of euerich maladye 
Were it of hoot or cold or moyste or drye, 
And where they engendred, and of what humour; 
He was a verray parfit praktisonr. 
The cause yknowe., and of his harm the roote, 
Anon he yaf the sike man his boote. 
Fful redy hadde he his Apothecaries 
To sende him drogges and his letuaries; 
Ffor 'ech of hem made oother for to wynne, 
Hir frendshipe was nat newe to bigynne. 
Wei knew he the olde Esculapius, 
And Deyscorides and eek Risus; 
Olde ypocras, Haly and Galyen 
Serapion, Razis, and Auycen 
Auerrois, Damascien, and Constantyn, 
Bernard and Gatesden, and Gilbertyn. 
Of his diete mesurable was he, 
Ffor it was of no superfluitee, 
But of greet norissyng, and digestible. 
His studie was but litel on the Bible. 


In sangwyn and in pers he clad was al 
Lyned with Taffeta and with SendaL 
And yet he was but esy of dispence; 
He kepte that he wan in pestilence; 
Ffor gold in Phisik is a cordial, 
Therefore he loued gold in special. 


A good man was ther of Religioun, 
And was a poure Person of a toun; 
But riche he was of hooly thoght and werk, 
He was also a lerned man, a clerk 
That cristes gospel trewely wolde preche, 
Hise parisshens deuoutly wolde he teche. 
Benygne he was, and wonder diligent, 
And in Aduersitee ful pacient; 
And swich he was y-preud ofte sithes. 
Fful looth were hym to cursen for his tithes; 
But rather wolde he yeuen out of doute 
Vn to his poure parisshens aboute. 
Of his offryng and eek of his substaunce 
He koude in litel thyng haue suffisaunce. 
Wyd was his parisshe, and houses fer a sender. 
But he ne lafte nat for reyn ne thonder, 
In sickness or in meschief to visite 
The ferrest in his parisshe, muche and lite 
Vp on his feet, and in his hand a staf. 
This noble ensample to his sheepe he yaf, 
That firste he wroghte and afterward that he taughte, 
Out of the gospel he the wordes caughte, 
And this figure he added eek ther to, 
That if ^old ruste what shall Iren doo. 
For if a preeste be foul on whom we truste, 
No wonder is a lewed man to ruste. . . 
He sette nat his benefice to hyre, 
And leet his sheepe encombred in the Myre, 
And ran to London vn to seint Paules, 
To seken hym a chauntrie for souies, 
Or with a brotherhed to been withholde; 
But dwelleth at hoom, and kepeth wel his folde, 


So that the wolf ne made it nat myscarie. 
He was a shepherde and noght a Murcenarie ; 
And though he hooly were and vertuous, 
He was nat to synful man despitous, 
Ne of his speeche dangerous ne digne, 
But in his techyng discreet and benygne. 
To drawen folk to heuene by fairnesse, 
By good ensample, this was his bisynesse; 
But it were any person obstinat, 
What so he were of heigh or lough estat, 
Hym wolde he snybben sharply for the nonys. 
A better preest I trowe that nowher noon ys. 
He waiteth after no pompe and reverence, 
Ne maked him a spiced conscience, 
But cristes loore, and his Apostles twelue 
He taughte, but first he folwed it him selue. 


Greet chiere made oure boost us euirichon, 
And to the soper sette he us anon 
And serued us with vitaille at the beste : 
Strong was the wyn and wel to drynke vs leste. 
A semely man oure hoost was with alle 
Ffor to been a Marchal in an halle; 
A large man he was, with eyen stepe; 
A fairer Burgeys was ther noon in Chepe, 
Boold of his speche and wys and wel ytaught, 
And of manhod hym lakked right naught. 
Eek therto he was right a myrie man 
And after soper pleyen he bigan 
And spak of myrthe, amonges othere thyngs 
Whan that we hadde maad our rekenynges,^ 
And seyde thus: "Now lordynges trewely* 
Ye been to right welcome hertely, 
Ffor by my trouthe, if that I shal nat lye, 
I saugh nat this yier so myrie a compaignye 
At ones in this herberwe as is now; 
Ffayn wolde I doon yow myrthe, wiste I how* 
And of a myrthe, I am right now bythoght, 
To doon you ese, and it shal coste you noght 


" Ye goon to Caunterbury : God yow spede 
The blisful martir quite yow youre neede 
And wel I woot, as ye goon by the weye, 
Ye shapen yow to talen and to pleye; 
Ffor trewely confort ne myrthe is noon 
To ride by the weye doumb as the stoon. 
And therefore wol I maken yow disport 
As I seyde erst and doon yow som confort 
And if yow liketh alle by oon assent 
Ffor to stonden at my Juggement, 
And for to werken as I shal yow seye, 
To morwe, whan ye riden by the weye, 
Now, by my fader soule that is deed, 
But if ye be myrie, I wal yeue yow myn heed. . . . 
Lordynges," quod he, " Now herkeneth for the best'e 
But taak it nought I prey yow in desdeyn; 
This is the poynt, to speken short and pleyn, 
That ech of yow, to shorte with oure weye 
In this viage, shal telle tales tweye 
To Caunterburyward, (I mene it so, 
And homward) he shal tellen other e two 
Of auentures that whilom han bifalle. 
And which of yow that bereth hym best of alle, 
That is to seyn, that telleth in this caas 
Tales of best sentence and moost solaas, 
Shal haue a soper at oure aller cost, 
Heere in this place, siltynge by this post, 
Whan that we come again fro Caunterbury; 
And, for to make yow the moore merry, 
I wol my self goodly with yow ryde 
Right at myn owene cost, and be youre gyde; 
And who so wole my juggement withseye, 
Shal paye al that we spenden by the weye ; 
And if ye vouche sauf that it be so, 
Tel me anon with outen wordes mo, 
And I wol erly shape me therefore." 

This thyng was graunted and oure othes swore 
With ful glad herte, and preyden hym also 
That he would vouche sauf for to do so, 
And that he wolde been our gouernour, 


And of our tales Juge and Reportour, 
And sette a soper at a certeyn pris, 
And we wol reuled been at his deuys. 

We give portions of these Canterbury Tales as told 
by some of the characters above introduced : 


It fil ones in a morwe of May, 

That Emylye, that fairer was to sene 

Than is the lylie upon his stalke grene, 

And fressher than the May with floures newe 

Ffor with the Rose colour stroof hire hewe, 

I noot which was the finer of hem two 

Er it were day, as was hir wone to do, 

She was arisen and al redy dight, 

Ffor May wole haue no slogardrie a nyght; 

The seson priketh euery gentil herte, 

And maketh hym out of his slepe to sterte, 

And seith, "Arys and do thyn obseruance." 

This maked Emylye have remembraunce 

To doon honour to May, and for to ryse. 

Yclothed was she fressh for to deuyse. 

Hir yelow heer was broyded in a tresse, 

Bihynde his bak a yerde long, I gesse, 

And in the gardyn at the sonne up riste, 

She walketh vp and down and as hire liste, 

She gadereth floures party white and rede, 

To make a subtil gerland for hire hede, 

And as an Aungel heuenysshly she soong. 

The Knight's Tale. 


O hateful harm, condicioun of poverte, 
With thurst, with coold, with hunger so confounded, 
To asken help thee shameth in thyn herte, 
If thou noon aske so soore artow ywoundid. 
That veray nede vnwrappeth al thy wounde hid 


Maugree thyn heed thou most for Indigence 

Or steele or begge or borwe thy dispence. . . 

Herke ! what is the sentence of the wise, 

Bet is to dyen than have Indigence ; 

Thy selue neighebor wol thee despise, 

If thou be poure, farwel thy reuerence. 

Yet of the wise man take this sentence, 

Alle dayes of poure men been wikke; 

Be war therefore er thou come to that prikke. 

If thou be poure, thy brother hateth thee, 

And alle thy f reendes fleen from thee, alias ! 

O riche merchauntz, ful of wele been yee, 

noble o prudent folk as in this cas. 
Youre bagges been nat fild with ambes as, 

But with sys cynk that renneth for youre chaunce, 

At Christemasse myrie may ye daunce. 

Ye seken lond and see for yowre wynnings, 

As wise folk ye knoweth all the staat 

Of regnes, ye been fadres of tidynges 

And tales bothe of pees and of debaat 

1 were right now of tales desolaat, 

Nere that a marchant goon, is many a yeere, 
Me taught a tale which that ye shal heere. 

Prologue to the Man of Law's Tale. 


And whan this worthi Knight Virgineus, 
Thoruhe thassent of the Juge Apius, 
Most be force his dere douhter yeuen 
Vn-to the Juge, in lichere to leuen, 
He gothe him home, and sett him in his hall, 
And lete anone his dere douhter call; 
And with a face dede as asshen colde, 
Vpon hire hum[ble] face he gan beholde, 

With faders pite stickinge thoruhe his hert, 
Al wolde be nouht from his purpos conuert. 
"Douhter," quod he, "Virginea be thi name, 
There bien two ways, eyther other schame, 
That thou most softer, alas that I was bore! 


Nor neuer thou deseruest where fore 

To deyen with a swerde or- with a knyf. 

O dere douhter, ender of my lif, 

Whiche I have fostred vp with suche plesance, 

That thou ne weer oute my remembrance; 

O douhter whiche that ert, my last woo, 

And in lif my last joy also, 

O gemme of chastite in pacience, 

Take thou thi deth, for this is my sentence; 

For loue and nouht for hate thou must be dede, 

My pitous honde most smyte of thin hede. 

Alas that ever Apius the seyhe! 

Thus hathe he falsy Jugged the to-day." 

And tolde hire al the cas, as ye be-fore 

Have herd, it nedeth nouht to tel it no more. 

" Merce, dere fadere," quod this maide. 

And withe that worde sche bothe hire armes leide 

Aboute his nekke, as sche was wont to do, 

The teres barsten oute of hire yen two, 

And seide: " Goode fader, schal I deye? 

Is there no grace ? is there no remedie ? " 

" No, certes, dere douhter myne/' quod he. 

" Than yeue me leue fader myn," quod sche 

" My deth to compleyne a litel space ; 

For parte Jeffa yaue his douhter grace 

For to compleine, ar he hir slowhe, alas ! 

And God it wote, no thinge was hire trespas, 

Bot that sche rarm hir fader first to see, 

To welcom him with grete solempnite." 

And with that worde sche fel in swoune anone. 

And after, whan hir swounynge was agone 

Sche riseth upe, and to hire fader seide, 

" Blessid be God, that I schal deye a meide. 

Yif me my dethe, ar that I have a schame. 

Dothe with youre Childe youre will, a Goddes name I 

And with that word sche praith ful oft, 

That with his swerde he scholde smite hir softe - 9 

And with that word in swoune doune sche felle 

Hir fader with ful sorweful hert and felle, 

Hire heued of smote, and be toppe it hent, 


And to the Juge he yane it to present, 

As he sat in his dome in consistorie. 

Whan the Juge it sauhe, as seithe the storie, 

He badde take him and houge him also fast; 

Bot riht anone al the peple in thrast 

To saue the knyht for reuthe and for pyte, 

Ffor knowen was the foles iniquite. 

The peple anone hadd susspecte in this thinge, 

Be maner of this clerkes chalangeinge. 

The Mediciner's Tale. 


" Grisilde/' quod he, as it were in his play, 

"How liketh the my wijf and her beaute?" 

" Right wel," quod sche, " my lord, for in good fey 

A fairer sawe I never now than sche. 

I pray to God yif you prosperite; 

And so hope I that he will to you sende 

Plesaunce ynow unto your lyues ende. , , 

O thing beseke I you and warne also, 
That ye prike with no tormentynge 
This tendre mayden, as ye han do mo ; 
Ffor sche is fostred in hire norischinge 
More tenderly, and to my supposynge 
Sche coude nought adversite endure, 
As coude a pore fostred creature/* 
And whan this Walter saugh hir pacience, 
Hire glad cher 5 and no malice at al, 
And he so often hadde don hire offence 
And sche ay sadde and constan as awal, 
Continuyng evere hire Innocence overal, 
This sturdy marquys gan hire herte dresse 
To rewen on hire wyfly stedfastnesse. 

" This is ynough, Grisilde myn," quod he. 
"Be now no more agast, ne yeul apayed. 
I haue thy feith and thi benignite, 
As wel as ever womman was assayed 
In gret astat'e, and pouereliche arrayed; 
Now knowe I, deere wyf, thy stedfastnesse ;** 
An hire in armes toke, and gan hire kesse 


And sche for wander took of hit no keepe; 

Sche thouyte nat what thing he to hir sayde. 

Sche ferde as sche hadde stirte out of hir slepe, 

Til sche out of hir masednesse abrayde. 

" Grisilde," quod he, " God that fer vs deyed, 

Thou art my wyf, ne non other I haue, 

Ne neuer hadde, so God my soul saue. 

" This is thy doughter, which thoti hast supposed 
To be my wyf ; that other feithfully 
Sceal be myn [heir], as I have ay purposed; 
Thou bare him in thi body trewely. 
At Bolygne have I kept hem pryuyly; 
Tak hem ayein for now mayst thou not seye, 
That thou hast lorn none of thy children tweye. 

And folk that otherwise han sayd of me, 
I warne hem wel that I have don this dede 
Ffor no malice, ne for no cruelte, 
But for tassaye in the thy wommanhede; 
Ane nat to slee my children^ God forbede ! 
But for to kepe hem pryuyly and stille, 
Til I thi purpos knewe and al thy wille." 

Whan this herde, a swowne doun sche fall 
Ffor pytous ioye, and after hir swownynge 
Sche bothe hire yonge children to hire calleth, 
And in his armes pitously wepynge 
Embraceth hem, and tendrely kissinge, 
Fful like a moder with hire salte teeres 
Sche batheth bothe hire visage and hire heres. 

O which a pytous sight it was to see 
Hir swownyng, and her humble voys to heere I 
" Graunt mercy, lord, God I thanke it you/' quod she, 
" That ye han saued me my children deere. 
Now rekke I neuer to be ded right heere, 
Sith I stoude in your love and in your grace, 
No fors of deth, ne whan my spirit pace. 
O tendre, o dere, o yonge children myne, 
Your woful moder wende stedfastly, 
That cruel houndes or som foul vermyne 
Hadde eten you ; but God of his mercy, 
And youre benigne fader tenderly 


Hath don you kepte." And in the same stounde 
Al sodeinly sche swapte a doun to grounde. 

And in hire swowne so sadly holdeth sche 
Hire children two, whan she gan hem embrace, 
That with gret sleight and with gret difficultie 
The children from hire arm thei gon arace. 
O ! many a teer on many a pitous face 
Doun ran of hem that stooden hire besyde, 
Vannethe aboute hire mighten they abyde. 

Walter hir gladeth, and hir sorwe slaketh, 
Sche ryseth tip abayssed from hire traunce, 
And euery wight hire ioye and feste maketh, 
Til sche hath caught ayein her contenance. 
Walter hire doth feithfully plesaunce, 
That it is deynte for to se the cheere 
Betwixe hem two, now they ben mett in feere. 
This laydes, whan that they here tyme saye, 
Han taken hire, and in to chambre goon, 
And strepen hire out of hire ruyde array, 
And in a cloth of gold that bright'e schoon, 
With a couroune of many a riche stoon 
Upon hire heed, they in to halle hir broughte; 
And then sche was honoured as sche oughte. 

The Clerk's Tale. 

clergyman ; born at Hallowell, Me., April 17, 
1807; die d at Eng-lewood, N. J., October I, 
1890. He was educated at Bowdoin College and 
Andover Theological Seminary, and in 1832 took 
charge of a Congregational church at Salem, Mass. 
He was afterward pastor of Presbyterian churches in 
New York and a contributor to religious newspapers. 
In 1835 he was convicted of libel and sentenced to 
thirty days' imprisonment for Deacon Giles's Distillery, 

VOL. V.-34 


a satirical allegory which he wrote and which was pub- 
lished in a Salem newspaper. It was on account of 
this difficulty, also, that he resigned his Salem pas- 
torate. His principal works are The Commonplace 
Books of Prose and Poetry (1828-29) ; Studies in Po- 
etry ( 1830) ; Select Works of Archbishop Leighton 
(1832) ; Capital Punishment (1843) J Lectures on the 
Pilgrim's Progress (1844) ; Wanderings of a Pilgrim 
(1845-46) ; The Hill Difficulty (1847) ; Journal of the 
Pilgrims at Plymouth in 1620 (1848) ; Windings of 
the River of Life (1849) 5 Voices of Nature (1852) ; 
Powers of the world to Come (1853) ; Lectures on 
'Cowper (1856) ; God Against Slavery (1857) ; A Voy- 
age to the Celestial Country (1860) ; Guilt of Slavery 
'(1860) ; Voices of Nature 'with Her Foster-Child, the 
Soul of Mem (1863); Faith, Doubt, and Evidence 
(1881) ; God's Timepiece for Man's Eternity (1883). 


At Montanvert you find yourself on the extremity of 
a plateau, so situated that on one side you may look 
down into the dread frozen sea, and on the other by a 
few steps, into the lovely green vale of Chamouny. 
What astonishing variety and contrast in the spectacle! 
Far beneath, a smiling and verdant valley, watered by 
the Arve, with hamlets, fields and gardens, the abode of 
life, sweet children, and flowers ; far above, savage and 
inaccessible craigs of ice and granite, and a cataract of 
stiffened billows, stretching away beyond sight the 
throne of Death and Winter. 

From the bosom of the tumbling sea of ice, enormous 
granite needles shoot into the sky, objects of singular 
sublimity, one of them rising to the great height of 
13,000 feet seven thousand above the point where you 
are standing. This is more than double the height of 
Mount Washington in our country, and this amazing 
pinnacle of rocks looks like the spire of an interminable 


colossal cathedral, with other pinnacles around it. No 
snow can cling to the summits of these jagged spires; 
the lightning does not splinter them; the tempests rave 
round them; and at their base those eternal, drifting 
ranges of snow are formed, that sweep down into the 
frozen sea, and feed the perpetual, immeasurable masses 
of the glacier. Meanwhile, the laughing verdure 
sprinkled with flowers, plays upon edges of the enormous 
masses of ice so near, that you may almost touch the 
ice with one hand and with the other pluck the 
violet . . . 

The impetuous arrested cataract seems as if it were 
ploughing the rocky gorge with its turbulent surges. In- 
deed the ridges of rocky fragments along the edges of 
the glacier, called moraines, do look precisely as if a 
colossal iron plough had torn them from the mountain, 
and laid them along in one continuous furrow on the 
frozen verge. It is a scene of stupendous sublimity. 
These mighty granite peaks, hewn and pinnacled into 
Gothic towers, and these ragged mountain walls and but- 
tresses what a cathedral ! with this cloudless sky, by 
starlight, for its fretted roof, the chanting wail of the 
tempest and the rushing of the avalanche for its organ. 
How grand the thundering sound of the vast masses of 
ice tumbling from the roof of the Arve cavern at the 
foot of the glacier ! Does it not seem, as it sullenly and 
heavily echoes, and rolls up from so immense a distance 
below, even more sublime than the thunder of the ava- 
lanche above us ? Wanderings of a Pilgrim. 


Such an instantaneous and extraordinary revelation 
of splendor we never dreamed of. The clouds had van- 
ished, we could not tell where, and the whole illimitable 
vast of glory in this, the heart of Switzerland's Alpine 
grandeurs, was disclosed; the snowy Monarch of 
Mountains, the huge glaciers, the jagged granite peaks, 
needles and rough, enormous crags and ridges congre- 
gated and shooting up in every direction, with the long, 


beautiful vale of Chamouny visible from end to end, far 
beneath, as still and shining as a picture! Just over 
the longitudinal ridge of mountains on one side was the 
moon, in an infinite depth of ether; it seemed as if we 
could touch it; and on the other the sun was exulting, 
as a bridegroom coming out of his chamber. The clouds 
still sweeping past us, now concealing, now partially 
veiling, and now revealing the view, added to its power by 
such sudden alternations. 

Far down the vale floated in mid air beneath us a 
few fleeces of cloud, below and beyond which lay the 
valley, with its villages, meadows, and winding paths, 
and the river running through it like a silver thread. 
Shortly the mists congregated away beyond this scene, 
rolling masses upon masses, penetrated and turned into 
fleecy silver by the sunlight, the body of them gradually 
retreating over the southwestern end and barrier of the 
valley. In our position we now saw the different gorges 
in the chain of Mont Blanc lengthwise, Charmontiere, Du 
Bois, and the Glacier du Bosson protruding its whole 
enorme from the valley. The grand Mulet, with the vast 
snow-depths and crevasses of Mont Blanc, were revealed 
to us. That sublime summit was now for the first time 
seen in its solitary superiority, at first appearing round 
and smooth, white and glittering with perpetual snow; 
but as the sun in his higher path cast shadows from sum- 
mit to summit, and revealed ledges and chasms, we could 
see the smoothness broken. Mont Blanc is on the right 
of the valley, looking up from the Col de Balme; the left 
range being much lower, though the summit of the Buet 
is near ten thousand feet in height. Now on the Col de 
Balme we are midway in these sublime -views, on an ele- 
vation of seven thousand feet, without an intervening 
barrier of any kind to interrupt our sight. On the Col 
itself we are between two loftier heights, both of which 
I ascended, one of them being a ridge so sharp and steep 
that, though I got up without much danger, yet on turn- 
ing to look about me and come down, it was absolutely 
frightful. A step either side would have sent me sheer 
down a thousand feet; and the crags by which I had 


mounted appeared so loosely perched, that I could shake 

and tumble them from their places by my hand. The 
view in every direction seemed infinitely extended, chain 
behind chain, ridge after ridge, in almost endless succes- 

But the hour of the most intense splendor in this day of 
glory was the rising of the clouds in Chamotmy, as we 
could discern them like stripes of amber floating in an 
azure sea. They rested upon and floated over the suc- 
cessive glacier gorges of the mountain range on either 
hand, like so many islands of the blest, anchored in mid- 
heaven below us; or like so many radiant files of the 
white-robed, heavenly host floating transversely across 
the valley. This extended through its whole length, and 
it was a most singular phenomenon; for through these 
ridges of cloud we could look, as through a telescope, 
down into the vale and along its farther end; but the in- 
tensity of the light flashing from the snows of the moun- 
tains and reflected in these fleecy radiances, was well- 
nigh blinding. Wanderings of a Pilgrim. 

clergyman; born at Hallowell, Me., February 
6, 1814; died at Worcester, Mass., February 
13, 1897. He was a brother of George B. Cheever. 
He was the author of the following works : The Whale 
and His Captors; Life in the Sandwich Islamts; The 
Island World of the Pacific; Autobiography of CapL 
Obadiah Cory at; Biography of Nathaniel Cheever, and 
of the Rev. Walter Colton; The Pulpit and the Pew. 


When we had got to the leeward of the caldron, we 
found large quantities of the finest threads of metallic 


vitrified lava, like the spears and filaments of sealing-wax, 
called "Pele's hair." The wind has caught them from 
the jets and bubbling springs of gory lava, and carried 
them away on its wings till they have lodged in nests and 
crevices, where they may be collected like shed wool about 
the time of sheep-shearing. Sometimes this is found 
twenty miles to the leeward of the volcano. The heat and 
sulphur gas, irritating the throat and lungs, are so great 
on that side we had to sheer away off from the brim of 
the caldron, and could not observe close at hand the part 
where there was the most gushing and bubbling of the ig- 
nifluous mineral fluid. But we passed round to the wind- 
ward, and were thus enabled to get up to the brim, so as to 
look over for a minute into the molten lake, burning in- 
cessantly with brimstone and fire 

"A furnace formidable, deep and wide, 
O'erboiling with a mad sulphureous tide." 

But the lava which forms your precarious foothold 
melted, perhaps, a hundred times, cannot be handled or 
trusted, and the heat even there is so great as to burn the 
skin of one's face; although the heated air, as it rises, is 
instantly swept off. to the leeward by the wind, it is always 
hazardous, not to say foolhardy, to stand there for a 
moment, lest your uncertain foothold, crumbling and crispy 
by the action of fire, shall suddenly give way, and throw 
you instantly into the fiery embrace of death. 

At times, too the caldron is so furiously boiling, and 
splashing, and spitting its fires, and casting up its salient, 
angry jets of melted lava and spume, that all approach to 
it is forbidden. We slumped several times near it, as a 
man will in the spring who is walking over a river of 
which the ice is beginning to thaw, and the upper stratum, 
made of frozen snow, is dissolved and rotten. A wary 
native who accompanied us wondered at our daring, and 
would not be kept once from pulling me back, as, with the 
eager and bold curiosity of a discoverer, all absorbed in 
the view of such exciting wonders, I was getting too 


At the time we viewed it, the brim all around was cov- 
ered with splashes and spray to the width of ten or twelve 
feet. The surface of the lake was about a mile in its 
longest diameter, at a depth of thirty or forty feet from 
its brim, and agitated more or less all over, in some places 
throwing up great jets and spouts of fiery red lava, in 
other places spitting it out like steam from an escape- 
pipe when the valves are half lifted, and again squirting 
the molten rock as from a popgun. The surface was like 
a river or lake when the ice is going out and broken up 
into cakes, over which you will sometimes see the water 
running, and sometimes it will be quite hidden. In the 
same manner in this lake of fire, while its surface was 
generally covered with a crust of half-congealed, dusky 
lava, and raised into elevations or sunk into depressions, 
you would now and then see the live-coal red stream run- 
ning along. Two cakes of lava, also, would meet like 
cakes of ice, and, their edges crushing, would pile up and 
fall over precisely like the phenomena of moving fields of 
ice; there was, too, the same rustling, grinding noise. 
Sometimes, I am told, the roar of the fiery surges is like 
the heavy beating of surf. Once, when Mr. Coan visited 
it, this caldron was heaped up in the middle, higher above 
its rim than his head, so that he ran up and thrust in a 
pyrometer, while streams were running off on different 
sides. At another time when he saw it, it had sunk four 
or five hundred feet below its brim, and he had to look 
down a dreadful gulf to see its fires. The Island World 
of the Pacific. 

NEY, JOHN VANCE, an American poet, es- 
sayist and librarian ; born at Groveland, N. Y. t 
December 29, 1848. He was educated at 
Temple Hill Academy, Geneseo, N. Y., and at Burr 
and Burton Seminary, Manchester, Vt. He then 
studied law, and was admitted to the Massachusetts 


bar. He began practice in New York city, but ill- 
health compelled him' to remove to California in 1880. 
In 1887 he was appointed librarian of the San Fran- 
cisco Public Library, where he served for eight years. 
In 1894 he was called to Chicago, to fill the place 
made vacant by the death of Dr. William F. Poole, as 
chief librarian of the Newberry Library. He is well 
known as one of the minor American poets, and has 
also written numerous literary essays. In prose he 
has published The Golden Guess (1892) ; and That 
Dome in Air (1895). His published verse includes 
The Old Doctor (1885) ; Thistledrift (1887) ; Wood- 
blooms (1888); Queen Helen (1895); and Out of 
the Silence (1897). He edited Wood Notes Wild 
^(1892) ), a series of unique papers on bird music, writ- 
ten by his father, Simeon Pease Cheney. Among the 
more prominent of Mr. Cheney's poems is one called 
The Confession. 


Father, thy face were not more pale 

Did all thy flock together cry 
Their sin. Is it so hard a tale? 

God's servant, what if, when I die, 
I should behold Hell's red mouth foam 
With flutter of white souls thou hast chanted 

Hear me. The path in anguish trod, 
That night, I once had loved it so ! 

Now, every root and stone and sod, 
How it did sting me ! To and fro 

The wild trees gestured Arno's name 
The heavy-treading thunder crashed, 

I heard! It came, and instantly a flame ; 


Knife-bright, at one thrust halved the dark, 
Rushed up; my very blood stopt; stark 
I stood there, rooted* Loud and fast 
The thunder strode, while my crazed brain 

Made the thick drops my tears dashed back again. 
How long it was I know not; all 

I saw, heard all, her pleading low, 
His tender answers. White and small, 

She hung there. 'Twas her clinging so 
That set me on. Oh, her breath blew 
Against me louder than the blast! I drew 

Hark, hark ! Teach him to say amen* 
How long must he the moaning make? 

Between the thunders again again 
Nay, my good hand you will not shake, 

You had not got one little speck 

But for the pale thing clinging round his neck. 

But I have told it, holding well 
To truth; love, father, does not lie. 

Useful, perhaps, the tale to tell 
The goodly people, by and by: 

Tell them I kneeled not, nor did bow 

My head, nor on my lips take any vow. 

Nay, let us have a brave farewell, 

And so forget the olden wrong. 
Tell them my story, father, tell 

How, glist'ning still, still bright and strong, 
Thou saw'st the good blade do it. Ay, 
'T is to the hilt so so. Father, I die. 


All the summer will a swallow 

Flit yon eave-nest out and in; 
Day and day together, 
Twitt'ring in the sunny weather, 


Flits she out and in: 

But when the air gets sharp and thin, 
And her ways the snowflakes follow, 
Where's the swallow where's the swallow? 

So Love's castle has a fairy, 

Tripping, tripping, out and in; 
Day and day together, 
Singing in the sunny weather, 

Trips she out and in: 

But when the sober days begin, 
Wolf to fight, and care to carry, 
Where's the fairy where's the fairy? 



A bard, unheard, sang sweetest lay, 
(Our life it is a little day;) 
The death-glaze made his bright eye dim, 
When all the world called after him. 

A maiden gave her heart away, 
(Our life it is a bitter day,) 
And there was scandal thro' the town; 
Only the bell-toll hushed it down. 

The maiden loves, the poet sings, 
(Dear bleeding heart, poor broken wings!) 
Oh, that th' indifferent grave could hear. 
The living turn the heedless ,ear ! 

Out of the Silence. 


ANDK& MARIE DE, a French poet; 

born at Constantinople, October 30, 1762 ; 

died at Paris, July 25, 1794. He was the 
third son of Louis Chenier, the French Consul-general 
to Constantinople. His mother was a Greek woman 
of great beauty and accomplishments. He was sent 
at a very early age to France, and lived with a sister 
of his father at Carcassonne until his ninth year. 
After his father's return, and when he was twelve 
years of age, he was placed in the College de Navarre, 
Paris. Partly owing to his natural love for it, and in 
part due to his mother's influence, he became a fine 
classical scholar, especially in Greek literature. At 
twenty he entered the army, and for a time served as 
a sub-lieutenant at Strasburg, but military life had no 
attractions for him, and in a few months he threw up 
his commission and returned to Paris, and again de- 
voted himself to study. During this period he wrote 
the idyls Le Mendiant; UAveugle, and Le Jeune 
Malade, and planned others. His close application 
affected his health, and he was compelled to seek 
change and rest, and toward the close of the year 1784 
he set out with some friends on a tour through Swit- 
zerland, Italy, and the Archipelago. On his return, 
in 1786, he again wrote and made plans and sketches 
for great poems. Among these are Suzanne; U In- 
vention, and Hermes. The first and last of these were 
left in a fragmentary condition. In 1787, against his 
own inclinations, but to please his family, he accepted 
the secretaryship of the French Legation at London. 
His poem of La Liberte, written at this time, shows 
that it was with great reluctance that he went to Lon- 


don. Three years later he resigned and returned to 
Paris in the first whirl of the Revolution, 1790. His 
intense love of liberty induced him to give it his 
earnest support, though from the first he identified 
himself with the moderate or conservative party. 
When Louis XVI. was brought to trial he assisted in 
the preparation of his defence, and offered to share 
with Malesherbes the responsibility of it. He had 
always opposed the atrocities of the Jacobins, and he 
published a number of pamphlets containing severe 
strictures against them and the leaders of the Revo- 
lution. These angered Robespierre, and he was ar- 
rested January 6, 1794, though the immediate cause 
was the arrest of Madame de Pastoret, in whose house 
he was staying at Passy. He was imprisoned in Saint 
Lazare. Here he met Mademoiselle de Coigny, 
Duchesse of Fleury, and for her he wrote the elegy, 
of which Lamartine says, " It is the most melodious 
sigh that ever issued from the crevices of a dungeon." 
After an incarceration of six months, on July 24th he 
was brought, with others, before the tribunal and con- 
demned, and on the following day, July 25, 1794, 
with Roucher, the poet, was executed, three days be- 
fore the close of the Reign of Terror. One account 
given of him as he was being borne to execution in 
the same cart with Roucher is that they repeated to 
each other the first scene of the Andromaque, another 
that he was silent and thoughtful. But two of his 
poems were published during his life, the others not 
for many years after his death. In 1819 Henri de 
Latouche edited selections from his manuscripts, and 
in 1883 Joubert brought out an edition of his poems. 
" The biography of Andre Chenier," says an able 
and appreciative writer in the Westminster Review, 


"contains the parallel stories of the two distinct and 
strangely dissimilar lives of a poet and of a political 
martyr the two never to be confounded or con- 
fused, yet, when by death they were finally merged 
into one completed history, each seeming the fitting 
complement to the other. As a poet he lived in a 
cherished retirement with his friends, his books, his 
love-longings, and his unuttered hopes, consecrating 
the days and nights to his writings, and to an intense 
study which should fit him to be worthy -of his art; 
yet so adverse was he to the petty jealousies and con- 
tests of a literary career, so far removed from the 
promptings of vanity, so utterly careless of contem- 
porary applause, that he chose to leave his poems un- 
published and, save to a few dear friends, unknown. 
When, however, the first signals of the great Revo- 
lution quickened the pulse and fired the blood of all 
who were eagerest, most generous, most hopeful, most 
impassioned in France, Andre Chenier, leaving the 
solitude which had to him become a second nature, 
threw himself into the vortex of political life with 
a reckless daring that almost savored of temerity. In 
the great world-drama which commenced in 1789, the 
part played by him was probably the purest, the no- 
blest, the most unselfish of any; for not only was he 
among the foremost to lead the people onward to res- 
cue all that was dear to them as men and women from 
the clutch of a terribly oppressive authority, but when, 
as an almost inevitable reaction, the people themselves, 
with their mob-laws, their Age of Reason, their thirst 
for vengeance and blood, inaugurated the most ap- 
palling tyranny that the world has ever witnessed, he 
again dared, this time almost alone, to take the side 
of the weakest, to battle for a liberty that should be 


governed by law, for a justice that should be tem- 
pered by toleration. Nearly single-handed, he tried 
to stem the rushing floods of massacres and mad- 
nesses and miseries; he attacked openly almost 
wantonly men whose scowling hatred foreboded 
death ; and when at last he found that all his struggles 
were ineffectual, he cried that it were better to deserve 
the guillotine than to enjoy life in times like these. 
And in his death-hour, turning, as if for consolation, 
again to poetry, he found his loveliest inspiration at 
the very foot of the scaffold." 


'A fragment; interrupted by the advent of the death- 

As the sun's last flashing ray, 

As the last cool breeze from the shore, 
Cheer the close of a dying day, 

Thus I strike my lyre once more. 
As now by the scaffold I wait, 

Each moment of time seems the last; 
For the clock, like a finger of fate, 

Points onward and onward fast. 
Perchance ere the hand goes round, 

Perchance ere I hear the beat 
Of the measured and vigilant sound 

Of its sixty sonorous feet, 
The sleep of the tomb will close 

On my wearied lids and eyes 
Ere each thronging thought that glows 

Can have taken its own fitting guise; 

And One, bearing death in his hand, 

Like a grim recruiter of shades, 
Will come with his murderous band, 


And, amid the clanging of blades, 
Fill all these gloomy corridors 
With resoundings of my name. 


It is above all when the sacrifices that must be made 
to truth, to liberty, to fatherland are dangerous and 
difficult that they are also accompanied with ineffable 
delights. It is in the midst of accusations, of out- 
rages, of proscriptions, it is in the dungeon and on 
the scaffold that virtue, probity, and constancy taste 
the full joy of a conscience lofty and pure. 

I take some joy in deserving the esteem of men of 
worth, in thus offering myself to the hatred and the 
vengeance of these villains sprung from the gutter; 
these corrupt professors of disturbance whom I have 
unmasked. I have thought to serve liberty in rescuing 
it from their praises. If, as I still hope, they will suc- 
cumb to the weight of reason, it will be honorable to 
have contributed ever so little to their downfall. If 
they triumph, these are the men by whose hand It were 
better to be hanged than clasped as friends and com- 


I was but a feeble infant, she a stately maid and tall, 

Yet with many a smiling promise, many a soft and win- 
some call, 

She would snatch me to her bosom, cradle me and rock 
me there, 

Let my childish fingers trifle with the glories of her hair ; 

Smother me with fond caresses for a moment's space 

As if shocked with my o'erboldness, feign to chide, but 
only feign. 

Then, when all her lovers thronged her wandering and 
bashful host 


Then the proud, disdainful beauty kissed and fondled 

me the most. 
Often, often (oh, how foolish childhood's innocent 

Has she covered me with kisses as I struggled in her 

While the shepherds murmur'd round us, as triumphantly 

I smiled, 
"Oh, what thrilling joys are wasted! Oh, too happy, 

happy child I" 

novelist and critic; born at Geneva, Switzer- 
land, July 19, 1829; died at Melun, July i, 
1899. He began life as a teacher, but resigned his pro- 
fessorship and travelled extensively in the East. On 
his return he published in the form of a novel the re- 
sult of his studies in archaeology. The first edition was 
called ^l Propos d'un Chevel, and the second Un Chevd 
de Phidias. Two other works of a similar character 
embody his views on the origin, transformation, and 
destiny of the globe. Both over his own name and 
under the nom de plume of G. Valbert, Cherbuliez also 
contributed to the Revue des Duex Mondest several 
papers on foreign politics and historical literature. 
Two novels of Cherbuliez have been dramatized, 
Samuel Brohl'znd L'Aventure de Ladislas Bolski, but 
neither has scored as a play the success attained in the 
original, form. . Cherbuliez was a distant relative of 
J. J. Rousseau. 

When about thirty years of age he established him- 
self in Paris, became a French citizen, and was ad- 



mitted to the French Academy In 1882. Among his 
novels are Count Kostia ( 1863 ) ; Prince Vitale 
(1864) ; Le Grand (Euvre (1867) ; Prosper Randoce 
(1868); UAventure de Ladislas Bolski (1869); Le 
Finance de Mademoiselle St. Maur (1876); Samuel 
Brohl et Cie (1877) ; Uldee de Jean Teterol (1878) ; 
Meta Holdenis; Olivier Maugant; Miss Rovel, and Le 
Revanche de Joseph NoireL He is also the author of 
U Es'pange Politique; Etudes de Litterature et d'Art; 
and UAllemagne Politique. 


One day we took a long horseback-ride. I was riding 
a chestnut full of pluck and fire; and Harris, who was 
an adept in horsemanship, and rather chary of his com- 
pliments, having deigned to praise my talents in that 
direction, I flattered myself that I was cutting some- 
thing of a figure in the world. In the evening we stopped 
at a country inn for refreshments. At the extremity 
of the arbor, where we had taken our seats, sat a 
family, just finishing a rural meal. A young girl of 
about eighteen, apparently the oldest of the children, 
stood facing me at the table, evidently fulfilling the 
duties of majordomo, for she was carving a fowl. To 
protect herself against the sun that here and there slid 
through the foliage she had put a fichu on her head. It 
was this which first attracted my attention, but the face 
underneath it interested me far more. Harris asked -me 
jestingly what I could find to admire in so ugly a crea- 
ture ; but I gave him to understand that he was no judge 
in the matter. This ugly creature, as he called her, was 
a brunette ; rather short than tall, with chestnut hair, eyes 
of the clearest and sweetest blue indeed, two veritable 
turquoises and a beauty-mole on the left cheek. She 
was neither handsome nor pretty; her nose was too 
heavy, her chin too square, her mouth too large, her 
lips too thick; but she had, on the other hand, that 
peculiar charm of I don't know what which bewitches: 
VOL. V. 25 


a nectarine complexion; cheeks like those fruits one 
longs to bite into; a face that resembles no other face; 
an ingenuous air, a caressing look, an angelic smile, and 
a singing voice. Her way of carving fowls was indeed 
adorable! Her four younger sisters and two little 
brothers were holding up their plates to her, opening 
their beaks like so many little chickens waiting for their 
food. She helped them all to their satisfaction. Her 
father, who had his back, to me, called to her in a hon- 
eyed voice and German accent, which sounded strangely 
familiar to me, " Meta,. you keep nothing to yourself, 
my dear ! " She replied in German, and she must have 
said something charming, for he cried, " Allerliebst ! " an 
exclamation I had no need of going to Dresden to un- 
derstand. At the same time he turned toward me and 
I recognized the venerable face of my travelling com- 

M. Holdenis, who was to live henceforth in my mem- 
ory as the father of the most charming ugly creature I 
had ever met, remembered me at once, and, as I ad- 
vanced toward him, received me with open arms. He 
asked permission to introduce me to Madame Holdenis, 
a large, stout woman, round as a ball, rosy ugly, and 
not the least charming. I excused myself for not hav- 
ing called on him before, and did not leave until I had 
obtained an invitation to dinner for the next day. . . . 
M. Holdenis lived in a comfortable country-house, 
five minutes' walk from the town. The place was called 
Florissant, and the house Mon-Nid; you will see by- 
and-by that I have had good reasons for remembering these 
names. I was punctual at the rendezvous, despite Har- 
ris, who had sworn to make me miss it. M. Holdenis 
welcomed me with the most amiable cordiality. He col- 
lected immediately his seven children, placed them, like 
organ pipes, all in a row, according to age and size, and 
gave me their names. I had to listen to the story of 
their precocious exploits, their winning ways, their nat- 
ural wit I expressed my delight and put Madame Hol- 
denis into ecstasy. " They are the very children of their 


mother ! " said the husband and, looking lovingly at 
her, he kissed chivalrously both her very red hands. 

During this time the busy Meta came and went, light- 
ing the lamps, making bouquets to stand on the mantel- 
piece, sliding into the dining-room to help the servant 
in setting the table, and from there darting into the 
kitchen to give an eye to the roast. Her father told 
me that they called her in the house " Little Mouse," 
das Mauschen, because she moved about so noiselessly: 
she had the secret of being everywhere at once. The 
meal seemed to me delicious for had she not had a 
hand in it? But what appeared still more admirable 
was the appetite of my host; I was, indeed, afraid he 
would hurt himself: all went off well, however; we 
took our coffee on the veranda in the star-light the 
honeysuckle and jasmines intoxicating us with their 
perfumes. "What matters it whether one lives in a 
palace or in a hut ? " remarked M. Holdenis to me, " pro- 
vided one keeps a window open to a bit of blue sky?" 

Having called back his progeny, he arranged them in 
a circle, and made them sing psalms. Meta beat the 
time for the young concert-singers, and at times gave 
them the key-note; she had a nightingale-voice, pure 
as crystal. We returned into the parlor. Games fol- 
lowed the psalms, until, the clock having struck ten, the 
worthy pastor of the flock made a sign, well understood 
by all, which stopped all merriment and introduced fam- 
ily worship. 

He then opened an enormous folio Bible, over which, 
bending his patriarchal head, he remained a few mo- 
ments silent, as if to collect his thoughts, and then began 
to improvise a homily upon the text of the Apocalypse: 
" These are the two olive-trees, and the two candle- 
sticks, standing before the God of the earth." I thought 
I understood him to mean that the two candle-sticks 
represented Monsieur and Madame Holdenis; the little 
Holdenises were as yet only bits of candles, but with 
proper efforts were expected to grow into wax-tapers. 

As soon as he had closed his big Bible, I rose to take 
my leave. He grasped both my hands and, looking at 


me tenderly, with tears in his eyes, said: "Behold our 
every-day life. You have found Germany even in this 
foreign country. I do not wish to hurt your feelings, 
but Germany is the only place in the world that knows 
what real family life means that perfect union of souls, 
that poetic and ideal sentiment of things. And," added 
he, with an amiable smile, " I do not think I am mis- 
taken when I say that you seem to me worthy in every 
way to become a German." 

I assured him, looking sideways at Meta, that he was 
not mistaken ; that I felt within me something that looked 
very much like a touch of divine grace. 

Half an hour later I repeated the same to Harris, who 
was waiting for me, furiously impatient, before two bot- 
tles of rum and a pack of cards, " Out of what holy 
water font do you come?" cried he, when he saw me; 
"you smell of virtue half a mile off." And, taking a 
brush, he dusted me from head to foot. He further 
tried to make me promise that I would not return to 
Florissant; but in vain. To punish me, he attempted 
to make me drunk, but when one thinks of Meta one 
does not get intoxicated on mere rum. 

If Mon-Nid proved to my taste, my dear madame, the 
compliment was reciprocated, for Mon-Nid was also well 
pleased with me. I felt a welcome guest there; was 
made a great deal of; was liked, in short. When ^ I 
submitted my project to learn German to M. Holdenis, 
he offered, with a rare kindness, to give me every day a 
lesson; and, as on the same occasion I expressed to 
him a great desire to paint his daughter's portrait, he 
granted me the request without very much ado. The 
consequence was that the nephew of my uncle Gedeon 
spent every day several hours in the sanctuary of virtue ; 
the time given to Ollendorf s Grammar, however, was 
by no means the most agreeable; not that M. Holdenis 
was a bad teacher, but his disquisitions seemed to me 
rather long-winded. He repeated too often that the 
French were a giddy people, that their poets and artists 
were devoid of ideality, that Corneille and Racine were 
cold rhetoricians, that La Fontaine was wanting in grace 


and Moliere in mirth. He demonstrated also, at too 
great a length, that the German was the only language 
that could express the depths of the soul and the infin- 
itude of sentiment. 

On the other hand, I always found Meta's sittings too 
short. The portrait I had undertaken was to me the 
most attractive I had ever attempted, but also the most 
laborious of tasks. I often despaired of going creditably 
through with it, so hard was it for me to express what 
I saw and felt. Is there anything more difficult than 
to reproduce with the brush the charm that is not beauti- 
ful? to fix on the canvas a face without decided linea- 
ments and features, whose whole worth rests on ingenu- 
ousness of expression, on blushing candor, on the caresses 
of the eye, and the luminous grace of the smile? Nor 
was that all; there lurked in that angelic face something 
else, which I strove in vain to render. . . . She 
seemed always very willing to sit for me, and appeared 
to like my company. She was, by turns, serious and 
playful. When serious, she would question me about 
the Louvre or the history of painting. When inclined to 
merriment, she amused herself talking German to me, 
and made me repeat ten times the same word after her. 
I generally answered as well as I could, making use of 
all I knew. My cock-and-bull stories made her some- 
times laugh until the tears came. I gained by it the right 
to call her by her pet name, Mauschen, which I managed 
to bring in in all I had to say ; and as the word was hard 
to pronounce, it proved the most useful of exercises to 
me. At the end of every sitting, and to pay me for 
my trouble, she would recite to me The King of Thule. 
She recited with exquisite taste, and whenever she came 
to the last lines 

"Die Augen thaten ihm sinken, 
Trank nie em en Tropfen mehr" 

her eyes filled with tears, and her voice became so faint 
and trembling that it seemed to die away. She sang 
that beautiful song so often to me that I soon knew it 
by heart, and indeed know it yet. Meta Holdenis. 



While I was all admiration, and wandered through 
the fields, Meta Holdems was quietly making the con- 
quest of every inhabitant of Les Charmilles. A few 
days sufficed her to subdue the ungovernable Lulu. She 
had requested that nobody should come between her 
and the child; that no one should interfere with the 
rules she had laid down, or the punishments she would 
judge proper, to inflict. It was a hard point to gain with 
Madame de Mauserre; she yielded, however, to the rep- 
resentations of her husband. At the first great misbe- 
havior Lulu became guilty of, her governess shut her- 
self up with her in a large room where there was nothing 
to break; then taking a seat, with her work, by the win- 
dow, she began to sew, letting Lulu storm as, much as 
she pleased. Lulu did her best; she stamped with her 
feet, threw the chairs about, howled. For three con- 
secutive hours there was such a noise that God's thunder 
would scarcely have been heard. Her governess kept 
on sewing, without appearing to be either moved or 
irritated by this fearful hubbub, until, completely ex- 
hausted in strength and lungs, Lulu fell asleep on the 
floor. After two or three experiences of this kind, she 
discovered that she had found a master; and as, after 
all, this master seemed to love her, and asked of her 
nothing but what was reasonable, she concluded that it 
was best to submit. 

Children are so constituted that they esteem what 
resists them; and a calm reason, that acts instead of 
reasoning, works upon them like a charm. Lulu, who, 
despite her mettle, was a good child, became gradually 
attached to her governess to such a degree that she 
would not leave her any more, and often preferred her 
lessons to playing. ... I do not know where Meta 
found the time to do all she did without appearing the 
least over-busy. Lulu's education was not a sinecure; 
and yet she undertook, along with it, the housekeeping. 
Madame de Mauserre had too good a heart to govern a 
house properly. Her only ambition was to see happy 


faces around her. I remember, one day, when the rain 
had driven us for refuge into a wretched inn in the 
suburbs of Rome, she ate up, to the last morsel, a detest- 
able omelet, merely that the feelings of the innkeeper 
might not be wounded. She confessed to this weakness 
herself. " When I have scolded my maid, and she looks 
cross," she said, " I hasten to make amends, e m' avoi- 

Her servants, whom she spoiled, took advantage of it. 
Meta was not long in discovering that certain portions 
of the house-service were neglected, and that there was 
waste. On her remarks upon the subject, M. de Mau- 
serre, who was not close with his money, but who loved 
order in everything, begged his wife to let Meta assist 
her in the government of the house, which, in a short 
time, was reformed, like Lulu. She had an eye on every- 
thing, in the laundry as well as in the pantry. Her 
mouse-like tread was constantly heard on the stairs, and 
the trail of her gray dress, which, without being new, 
was always so fresh and clean that it seemed just come 
from the hands of the mantua-maker, was sweeping noise- 
lessly along the passages. The subalterns were not very 
willing, at first, to recognize her authority, and there 
was a good deal of ill-feeling and rude behavior toward 
her; but Meta's patience here again triumphed, and she 
succeeded in disarming them by opposing to their some- 
what wanton familiarity or bluntness an unalterable 
politeness. She possessed the tact to tame all sorts of 
animals,; the very dogs of the chateau had presented 
their duties to her on the first day of her arrival. To rule 
was truly her vocation. 

At six o'clock the Mouse took off her gray vestments 
and put on a black silk dress, which she relieved with 
a crimson bow; an ornament of similar color was put 
in her hair, and this formed her dinner toilet She 
spoke very little during meals ; her attention was chiefly 
directed upon her pupil, whose exuberance of spirits 
required close watching. Between eight and nine o'clock 
she put Lulu to bed, and returned immediately to the 
drawing-roorn, where she was always impatiently ex- 


pected. Everybody at Les Charmilles M. de Mauserre 
especially was passionately fond of music, and there 
was no other performer except Madame d'Arci, whose 
voice, though timid, was correct and agreeable. I cannot 
recollect a single instance of musical memory to be com- 
pared with Meta's; her head was a complete repertory 
of operas, oratorios, and sonatas. She played or sang 
all the airs she was asked, supplying as well as she could 
what escaped her; after which, to please herself, she 
would conclude her concert with a piece from Mozart. 
Then her face would light up and her eyes sparkle ; and 
it was then that, according to M. de Mauserre' s expres- 
sion, her ugliness became luminous. He had at last 
conceded to me that, no doubt, Velasquez and Rembrandt 
would have preferred this ugliness to beauty. 

Three weeks after her arrival at Les Charmilles, Meta 
Holdenis had so well defined her place there that it 
seemed as if she had always belonged to the house- 
hold, and that it would have been impossible to get 
along without her. If, at the house, when we used to 
meet in the drawing-room, she was detained in her 
room, every one would say, coming in, " Is Mademoiselle 
Holdenis here? Where is Mademoiselle Holdenis?" 
Mf d' Arci himself, in his better hours, would confess 
that he began to be reconciled with the ideal. Madame 
de Mauserre was never tired of chanting the praises of 
this pearl of governesses; she called her an angel, and 
could not bless enough the American Harris for having 
sent her that good, that amiable girl, that innocent heart, 
pure as a sky in springtime. It was thus she gave vent 
to her enthusiasm. Of course, I was the last person to 
contradict her. Meta Holdenis. 


EARL OF, an English statesman and orator; 
born at London, September 22, 1694; died 
March 24, 1773. He was educated at Cambridge, and, 
after making the tour of Europe, was appointed a gen- 
tleman of the bed-chamber to the Prince of Wales. In 
1727 he was made a privy councillor, and in 1728 was 
appointed Ambassador Extraordinary to Holland. He 
was afterward Lord-Lieutenant of Ireland and Secre- 
tary of State. He was distinguished by his brilliant 
wit, polished manners, and elegance of conversation. 
Deafness forced him to retire from public life in 1762. 
His literary reputation rests upon a series of Letters 
addressed to his natural son, Philip Stanhope, not in- 
tended for publication, but designed " to give the ad- 
vice and knowledge requisite to form the man am^ 
bitious to shine as an accomplished courtier, an orator 
in the senate, or a minister at foreign courts." These 
letters, though elegant in style, and full of good advice 
in regard to the outward conduct of life, too often 
reflect the low moral tone of the age in which they 
were written. 


I recommended to you, in my last, an innocent piece 
of art; that of flattering people behind their backs, in 
presence of those, who, to make their own court, much 
more than for your sake, will not fail to repeat, and 
even amplify the praise to the party concerned. This 
is of all flattery the most pleasing, and consequently 
the most effectual. There are other, and many other 
inoffensive arts of this kind, which are necessary in the 
course of the world, and by which lie who practises the 


earliest will please the most and rise the soonest. The 
spirits and vivacity of youth are apt to neglect them as 
useless, or reject them as troublesome. But subsequent 
knowledge and experience of the world reminds us of 
their importance, commonly when it is too late. 

The principal of these things is the mastery of one's 
temper, and that coolness of mind and serenity of coun- 
tenance which hinders us from discovering by words, 
actions, or even looks, those passions or sentiments by 
which we are inwardly moved or agitated; and the dis- 
covery of which gives cooler and abler people such infi- 
nite advantages over us, not only in great business, but 
in all the most common occurrences of life. A man who 
does not possess himself enough to hear disagreeable 
things without visible marks of anger and change of 
countenance, or agreeable ones without sudden bursts 
of joy and expansion of countenance, is at the mercy of 
every artful knave or pert coxcomb; the former will 
provoke or please you by design, to catch unguarded 
words or looks; by which he will easily decipher the 
secrets of your heart, of which you should keep the key 
yourself, and trust it with no man living. The latter will, 
by his absurdity, and without intending it, produce the 
same discoveries, .of which other people will avail them- 

You will say, possibly, that this coolness must be 
constitutional, and consequently does not depend upon 
the will: and I will allow that constitution has some 
power over us; but I will maintain, too, that people 
very often, to excuse themselves, very unjustly accuse 
their constitutions. Care and reflection, if properly used, 
will get the better: and a man may as surely get a 
habit of letting his reason prevail over his constitution, 
as of letting, as most people do, the latter prevail over 
the former. If you find yourself subject to sudden starts 
of passion or madness (for I see no difference between 
them but in their duration), resolve within yourself, at 
least, never to speak one word while you feel that emo- 
tion within you. Determine, too, to keep your counte- 
nance as unmoved and unembarrassed as possible; which 


steadiness you may get a habit of by constant attention. 
I should desire nothing better, in any negotiation, than to 
have to do with one of those men of warm, quick pas- 
sions; which I would take care to set in motion. By 
artful provocations I would extort rash, unguarded ex- 
pressions; and by hinting at all the several things that 
I could suspect infallibly discover the true one, by the 
alteration it occasioned in the countenance of the person. 
. . . Make yourself absolute master, therefore, of your 
temper and your countenance, so far, at least, that no 
visible change do appear in either, whatever you may 
feel inwardly. This may be difficult, but it is by no 
means impossible. 


A friend of yours and mine has very justly defined 
good breeding to be the result of much good sense, 
some good nature, and a little self-denial for the sake 
of others and with a view to obtain the same indul- 
gence from them. Taking this for granted (as I think 
it cannot be disputed), it is astonishing to me that any- 
body who has good sense and good nature (and I believe 
you have both), can essentially fail in good breeding. 
As to the modes of it, indeed, they vary according to 
persons and places and circumstances, and are only to 
be acquired by observation and experience; but the sub- 
stance of it is everywhere and eternally the same. Good 
manners are to particular societies what good morals are 
to society in general their cement and their security. 
And, as laws are enacted to enforce good morals, or at 
least to prevent the ill effects of bad ones, so there are 
certain rules of civility, universally implied and received, 
to enforce good manners and punish bad ones. And, 
indeed, there seems to me to be less difference, both be- 
tween the crimes and between the punishments, than at 
first one would imagine. The immoral man who invades 
another man's property is justly hanged for it; and the 
ill-bred man, who, by his ill manners, invades and dis- 
turbs the quiet and comforts of private life is, by common 
consent, as justly banished from society. Mutual com- 


plaisances, attentions, and sacrifices of little conveniences, 
are as natural as an implied compact between civilized 
people, as protection and obedience are between kings and 
subjects; whoever, in either case violates that compact 
justly forfeits all advantages arising from it. For my 
own part, I really think that next to the consciousness 
of doing a good action, that of doing a civil one is the 
most pleasing; and the epithet which I should covet 
the most, next to that of Aristides, would be that of 
well bred. . . . 

In mixed companies, whoever is admitted to make 
part of them is, for the time at least, supposed to be 
upon a footing of equality with the rest; and conse- 
quently, as there is no principal object of awe and 
respect, people are apt to take a greater latitude in their 
behavior, and to be less upon their guard; and so they 
may, provided it be within certain bounds which are 
upon no occasion to be transgressed. But upon these 
occasions, though no one is entitled to distinguished 
marks of respect, every one claims, and very justly, 
every mark of civility and good breeding. Ease is al- 
lowed, but carelessness and negligence are strictly for- 
bidden. If a man accosts you and talks to you ever so 
dully and frivolously, it is worse than rudeness, it is 
brutality, to show him, by a manifest inattention to what 
he says, that you think him a fool or a blockhead, and 
not worth hearing. . . . 

There is a sort of good breeding in which people are 
the most apt to fail, from a very mistaken notion that 
they cannot fail at all. I mean with regard to one's 
most familar friends and acquaintances, or those who 
really are our inferiors ; and there, undoubtedly, a greater 
degree of ease is not only allowed, but proper, and con- 
tributes much to the comforts of a private, social life. 
But that ease and freedom have their bounds too, which 
must by no means be violated. A certain degree of negli- 
gence and carelessness becomes injurious and insulting, 
from the real or supposed inferiority of the persons; 
and that delightful liberty of conversation among a few 
friends is soon destroyed, as liberty often has been, by 


being carried to licentiousness. The most familiar and 
intimate habitudes, connections, and friendships, -require 
a degree of good breeding both to preserve and cement 
them. . . . 

The deepest learning, without good breeding, is un- 
welcome and tiresome pedantry, and of use nowhere 
but in a man's own closet; and consequently of little or 
no use at all. A man who is not perfectly well bred is 
unfit for good company, and unwelcome in it; will con- 
sequently dislike it soon, afterward renounce it; and 
be reduced to solitude, or, what is worse, low and bad 
company. ... A man who is not well bred is full as 
unfit for business as for company. Make them, my dear 
child, I conjure you, good breeding the great object of 
your thoughts and actions, at least half the day, and be 
convinced that good breeding is, to all worldly qualifica- 
tions, what charity is to all Christian virtues. Observe 
how it adorns merit, and how often it covers the want 
of it. May you wear it to adorn, and not to cover you. 

poet, essayist and critic; born at London, in 
1861. His works include Wild Knight and 
Other Poems (1885) I The Defendant (1889) ; Car- 
lyle (1903); Browning (1903); and The Club of 
Queer Trades (1905). The latter work is an essay 
in satiric fiction, and is constructed upon the plan 
of the Arabian Nights' Entertainment. The club of 
Queer Trades limits its membership strictly to per- 
sons who have invented new occupations, which occu- 
pations must afford the practitioner an actual living. 
The founder of the club (whose own idea obviously 
must be made to pay also) undertakes to spy out eligi- 
bles and in that pursuit wins adventures. Among the 
new businesses is one which undertakes to fit every* 


body (however prosaic) with a suitable romance. One 
member of great genius has a scheme to organize 
repartee, and syndicates table talk and drawing room 


Women are the inheritors of the oldest, most universal 
human wisdom. They have more sense than men, for 
the simple reason that a man has to be a specialist, and 
a specialist has to be a fanatic. The normal man all over 
the world is a hunter, or a fisher, or a banker, or a man 
of letters, or some silly thing. If so, he has to be a wise 
hunter, or a wise banker. But nobody with the smallest 
knowledge of professional life would ever expect him to 
be a wise man. But his wife has to be a wise woman. 
She has to have an eye on everything, an eye on the things 
that fanatical bankers forget. If the banker is melan- 
choly, she must teach him ordinary cheerfulness. If the 
banker is too convivial, she must teach him ordinary cau- 
tion. If she had four husbands (like Chaucer's Wife of 
Bath), she would be an optimist to the pessimist, a pes- 
simist to the optimist, a Pagan to the Puritan, a Puritan 
to the Pagan. For she is the secret health of the world. 

Surely, then, it is absurd to test the " brain-power " of 
women by asking how high they figure in examinations 
or trades; that is to say, how dextrously and powerfully 
they work as sweeps, or parsons, or journalists, or em- 
perors, or innkeepers, or what not. 

For the very great "brain-power" of women in the 
world is largely poured out in an attempt to modify the 
excessive sweepiness of sweeps, the undue parsonity of 
parsons, the journalistic feverishness of journalists, the 
Imperial vulgarity of emperors, and the moral difficulties 
that arise from the keeping of an inn. Our sanity is built 
up out of their agonies. Our stillness is made out of their 
straining. We have not much to pay them back with for 
thus upholding from the beginning the utterly unattainable 
ideal of common sense. We have made one attempt to 
do it : we have called Nature " she." 


^HIABRERA, GABRIELLO, an Italian lyric poet; 
born at Savona, June 8, 1552; died there, Oc- 
tober 14, 1637. He was sent at the age of nine 
years to Rome, where he was educated at the Jesuits' 
College, He afterward entered the service of Cardi- 
nal Cornero-Camerlingo. A duel, in which he slew 
his adversary, forced him to flee to Savona, where 
he devoted himself to literature. Another broil, re- 
sulting in his antagonist's death, exposed him to prose- 
cution and the loss of his property by confiscation. 
Rescued by the efforts of Cardinal Aldobrandini, 
Chiabrera passed the remainder of his life in quiet. 
His early poems were imitations of Anacreon, Simoni- 
des, and Sappho, but he soon began to form a style of 
his own. He is said to have declared that the poets of 
Italy were too timid in art, and that, like Columbus, 
he would discover a new world, or drown. An admir- 
ation of Pindar made him an unconscious imitator of 
the Greek pattern, after which he formed a style of his 
own, which distinguishes him from other Italian lyric 
poets. After he became famous as an author he re- 
sided mostly in Florence and Genoa. His sublime 
odes and canzoni soon won him national fame, and he 
received many honors at the hands of several Italian 
rulers. He wrote much and in many varieties of 
verse. He composed five epics: Italia Liberata; the 
Gotiade; the Ruggiero; the Firenze; and the Amadei 
His reputation, however, rests upon his lyric poems, in 
which he surpassed all his Italian predecessors. 



Sweet thornless rose, 

Surpassing those 
With leaves at morning's beam dividing! 

By Love's command, 

Thy leaves expand 
To show the treasure they were hiding. 

O, tell me, flower, 

When hour by hour 
I doting gaze upon thy beauty 

Why thou the while 

Dost only smile 
On one whose purest love is duty! 

Does pity give, 

That I may live, 
That smile, to show my anguish over? 

Or, cruel coy, 

Is it but joy 
To see thy poor expiring lover? 

Whate'er it be, 

Or cruelty, 
Or pity to the humblest, vilest; 

Yet can I well 

Thy praises tell, 
If while I sing them thou but smilest. 

When waters pass 
Through springing grass, 

With murmuring song their way beguiling: 
And flowerets rear 
Their blossoms near 

Then do we say that Earth is smiling 

When in the wave 
The Zephyrs lave 
Their dancing feet with ceaseless motion, 


And sands are gay 
With glittering spray 
Then do we talk of smiling Ocean, 

When we behold 

A vein of gold 
O'erspread the sky at morn and even 

And Phoebus' light 

Is broad and bright 
Then do we say 'tis smiling Heaven. 

Though Sea and Earth 

May smile in mirth, 
And joyous Heaven may return it; 

Yet Earth and Sea 

Smile not like thee, 
And Heaven itself has yet to learn it. 


There never breathed a man, who, when his life 
Was closing, might not of that life relate 
Toils long and hard. The warrior will report 
Of wounds, and bright swords flashing in the field, 
And blasts of trumpets. He who hath been doomed 
To bow his forehead in the courts of kings 
Will tell of fraud and never-ceasing hate, 
Envy and heart-inquietude, derived 
From intricate cabals of treacherous friends. 
I, who on shipboard lived from earliest youth, 
Could represent the countenance horrible 
Of the vexed waters, and the indignant rage 
Of Auster and Bootes. Fifty years 
Over the well-steered galleys did I rule. 
From huge Pelorus to the Atlantic Pillars, 
Rises no mountain to mine eyes unknown; 
And the broad gulfs I traversed oft and oft. 
Of every cloud which in the heavens might stir 
I knew the force ; and hence the rough sea's pride 
Availed not to my vessel's overthrow. 
VOL. V. 26 


What noble pomp, and frequent, have not I 

On regal decks beheld ! yet in the end 

I learned that one poor moment can suffice 

To equalize the lofty and the low. 

We sail the sea of life a calm one finds, 

And one a tempest and the voyage o'er, 

Death is the quiet haven of us all. 

If more of my condition ye would know, 

Savona was my birthplace, and I sprang 

Of noble parents: seventy years and three 

Lived I then yielded to a slow disease. 

Translation of WORDSWORTH. 

novelist and philanthropist; born at Medford, 
Mass., February n, 1802; died at Way land, 
Mass., October 20, 1880. Her first novel, Hobomok, 
was published in 1824. For several years she was . 
editor of the Juvenile Miscellany. In 1841, in asso- 
ciation with her husband, David Lee Child, she became 
editor of the National Anti-Slavery Standard. 

The following story is told of the beginning of her 
authorship: Having been for several years removed 
from all literary associations, she one Sunday, while 
on a visit to her brother, a clergyman of Watertown, 
happened to read, in the North American Review, Dr. 
Palfrey's article on Yamoyden, in which the adapta- 
tion of New England history to the purposes of fic- 
tion was eloquently set forth. She had never written 
a word for the press, never dreamed of turning au- 
thor; but the spell was upon her, and seizing a pen, 
within two or three hours she had composed the first 


chapter of Hobomok just as it is printed. She showed 
it to her brother, and her young ambition was flattered 
by his exclamation : " But, Maria, did you really 
write this? Do you mean to say that it is entirely 
your own? " " The excellent Doctor," says Dr. Gris- 
wold, in relating this incident, " little knew the effect 
of his words; her fate was fixed, and in six weeks 
Hobomok was finished/' 

Speaking of the influences which contributed to mak- 
ing Mrs. Child a literary woman, the Atlantic Month- 
ly, in its review of her Letters, said : " Her formative 
period was that curious and interesting one when 
there was a serene and not self-conscious provincialism 
in New England ; when foreign and ancient literature 
and life were quietly measured by standards kept in 
the neighborhood of Boston Common ; when there was 
a flower of culture which was entirely of native growth 
and production; when New York was a remote and 
interesting region to be reported upon by travellers; 
and when all questions of philosophy and religion were 
to be determined with a calm disregard of the rest of 
the world, for the use of the descendants of the Puri- 
tans and Pilgrims. This prevalent tone of intellectual 
and moral life was apparent in Mrs. Child to the end 
of her days. It gave her an innocent audacity in 
handling themes which required larger equipment than 
she could bring into service, and made her, even when 
professing an inquiry into history, and a large human 
experience, to be curiously oblivious of great historic 
movements. All this was common enough in New 
England of her early days, but the book which she 
prepared just before her death, Aspirations of the 
World, was just as provincial as if it had been written 


forty years before, when New England had its own 
exclusive prophets and philosophers." 

Among her numerous writings are The Rebels: A 
Tale of the Revolution (1828); Philothea (1829); 
The Mother's Book (1833) ; The Girl's Book (1836) ; 
The American Frugal Housewife (1838) ; A History 
of the Condition of Women of All Ages and Nations 
(1839); Biographies of Good Wives (1841); The 
Family Nurse (1843) 5 The Coronal: Pieces in Prose 
and Verse (1844); Flowers for Children (1845); 
Fact and Fiction (1846) ; Memories of Madame de 
Stael and Madame Roland (1852) ; Life of Isaac T. 
Hopper (1853); Letters From New York (1854); 
Progress of Religious Ideas through the Ages 
(1855) ; Autumnal Leaves, Looking Toward Sunset 
(1864) ; The Freedman's Book (1866) ; and Miner: 
A Romance of the Republic (1867) ; and Aspirations 
of the World (1878). 


Following the railroad, which lay far beneath our feet, 
as we wound our way over the hills, we came to the 
burying-ground of the poor. Weeds and brambles grew 
along the sides, and the stubble of last year's grass 
waved over it, like dreary memories of the past; but 
the sun smiled on it, like God's love on the desolate 
soul. It was inexpressibly touching to see the frail 
memorials of affection, placed there by hearts crushed 
under the weight of poverty. In one place was a small 
rude cross of wood, with the initials J. S. cut with a 
penknife, and apparently filled in with ink. In another 
a small hoop had been bent into the form of a heart, 
painted green, and nailed on a stick at the head of the 
grave. On one upright shingle was painted only 
"MUTTER;" the German word for "Mother." On an- 
other was scrawled, as if with charcoal, "So ruhe wohl 


du unser liebes Kind." (Rest well, our beloved child.) 
One recorded life's brief history thus: " H. G., born 
in Bavaria; died in New York." Another short epitaph 
in French told that the speaker came from the banks of 
the Seine. 

The predominance of foreign epitaphs affected me 
deeply. Who could now tell with what high hopes those 
departed ones had left the heart homes of Germany, 
the sunny hills of Spain, the laughing skies of Italy, 
or the wild beauty of Switzerland? Would not the 
friends they had left in their childhood's home weep 
scalding tears to find them in a pauper's grave, with 
their initials rudely carved on a fragile shingle. Some 
had not even these frail memorials. It seemed there 
was none to care whether they lived or died. . . . 
Returning homeward, we passed a Catholic burying- 
ground. It belonged to the upper classes, and was filled 
with marble monuments, covered with long inscriptions. 
But none of them touched my heart like that rude 
shingle, with the simple word " MUTTER " inscribed there- 
on. Letters from New York. 


The other day I went forth for exercise merely, with- 
out other hope of enjoyment than a farewell to the set- 
ting sun, on the now deserted Battery, and a fresh kiss 
from the breezes of the sea, ere they passed through the 
polluted city, bearing healing on their wings. I had not 
gone far, when I met a little ragged urchin, about four 
years old, with a heap of newspapers, "more big than 
he could carry/' under his little arm, and another clenched 
in his small red fist. The sweet voice of childhood was 
prematurely cracked into shrillness by screaming street 
cries, at the top of his lungs, and he looked blue, cold, 
and disconsolate. May the angels guard him! How I 
wanted to warm him in my heart. 

I stood looking after him as he went shivering along. 
Imagination followed him to the miserable cellar where 
he probably slept on dirty straw. I saw him flogged after 
his day of cheerless toil, because he had failed to bring 


home pence enough for his parents' grog; I saw wicked 
ones come muttering, and beckoning between his young 
soul and heaven; they tempted him to steal to avoid 
' the dreaded beating. I saw him years after, bewildered 
and frightened, in the police-office surrounded by hard 
faces. Their law-jargon conveyed no meaning to his 
ear, awakened no slumbering moral sense, taught him 
no clear distinction between right and wrong; but from 
their cold, harsh tones, and heartless merriment, he drew 
the inference that they were enemies ; and as such he 
hated them. At that moment, one tone like a mother's 
voice might have wholly changed his earthly destiny; 
one kind word of friendly counsel might have saved 
him as if an angel standing in the genial sunlight, 
had thrown to him one end of a garland, and gently 
diminishing the distance between them, had drawn him 
safely out of the deep and tangled labyrinth, where false 
echoes and winding paths conspired to make him lose 
his way. But watchman and constables were around 
him, and they have small fellowship with angels. The 
strong impulses that might have become overwhelming 
love for his race, are perverted to the bitterest hatred. 
He tries the universal resort of weakness against force; 
if they are too strong for him, he will be too cunning 
for them. Their cunning is roused to detect his coming; 
and thus the gallows-game is played, with interludes of 
damnable merriment from police reports, whereat the 
heedless multitude laugh; while angels weep over the 
slow murder of a human soul. God grant that little 
shivering carrier-boy a brighter destiny than I have fore- 
seen for him. Letters from New York. 


I thank thee, friend, for words of cheer, 

That made the path of duty clear, 

When thou and I were young and strong 

To wrestle with a mighty wrong, 

And now, when lengthening shadows come, 

And this world's work is nearly done, 

I thank thee for thy genial ray 



That prophesies a brighter day 
When we can work, with strength renewed, 
In clearer light, for surer good. 
- God bless thee, friend, and give thee peace, 
Till thy fervent spirit finds release; 
And may we meet, in worlds afar, 
My Morning and my Evening Star! 

|HILDS, GEORGE WILLIAM, an American jour- 
nalist and philanthropist; born at Baltimore, 
Md., May 22, 1829 ; died at Philadelphia, Pa., 
February 3, 1894. He was educated in a private 
school, and entered the United States Navy at thirteen 
years of age, but remained less than two years. He 
then engaged as a clerk in a bookstore in Philadelphia, 
and in 1847 became a partner in a publishing house 
in that city. A few years after he was made a mem- 
ber of the publishing firm of R. E. Peterson & Co., 
and the firm name was changed to Childs & Peterson. 
In 1863 he sold his interest in this firm, and in 1864 
purchased the Philadelphia Public Ledger, which un- 
der his management became one of the most prosper- 
ous daily newspapers in the United States. He was 
distinguished as a philanthropist, every worthy enter- 
prise of public charity receiving always his heartiest 
support. He gave a Shakespeare memorial fountain 
to Stratford-on-Avon, and founded a home for printers 
at Colorado Springs. He published Recollections of 
General Grant (1885); and Personal Recollections 
(1889). He received the degree of LL.D. from Grant 
Memorial University, Tennessee, in 1887. 


Upon the appearance of his Recollections, he re- 
ceived from Oliver Wendell Holmes the following 
tribute of friendship and appreciation : " It is a work 
which must be eagerly read in all parts of the country. 
Your own career is typical, and holds an example and 
promise to your fellow-countrymen. It shows them 
what intelligence, honesty, perseverance, generous 
aims, and the personal qualities which make friends 
can do for a young man who has his own way to make 
and means to make it. I do not think any one can 
grudge you the success you have won. It must be a 
great delight to look back on a career marked by such 
triumphs, with the feeling that you have added so 
much to the happiness of your fellow-countrymen and 
to the credit of your country. It is a record of deeds 
by which you will long be remembered ; and what can 
be more gratifying than to feel that your name will 
always be associated with the fairest products of art 
and the most precious memories of the great singers 
who have lent a glory to the language we inherit? I 
cannot forget your many acts of courtesy to myself; 
and I return my thanks to you for all the tokens of 
friendly regard with which you have honored me." 


In his life three qualities were conspicuously revealed 
justice, kindness, and firmness. Seeing General Grant 
frequently for more than twenty years, I had abundant 
opportunity to notice these qualities. 

A great many people had an idea that General Grant 
was very much set in his opinions; but, while he had 
decided opinions, at the same time he was always open 
to conviction. Very often in talking- with him he would 
make no observation, and when one had got through, it 
would be difficult to tell exactly whether he had grasped 


the subject or not, but in a very short time, if the mat- 
ter was alluded to again, it would be found that he had 
comprehended it thoroughly. His power of observation 
and mental assimilation was remarkable. 

Another marked trait of his character was his purity 
in every way. I never heard him express an impure 
thought or make an indelicate allusion. There was 
nothing I ever heard him say that could not be repeated 
in the presence of women. He never used profane lan- 
guage. He was very temperate in eating and drinking. 
In his own family, unless guests were present, he seldom 
drank wine. If, while he was President, a man were 
urged for an appointment, and it was shown that he was 
an immoral man, he would not appoint him, no matter 
how great the pressure brought to bear by his friends. 

vine and controversialist; born at Oxford, in 
October, 1602 ; died at Chichester, January 30, 
1644. He was educated at Trinity College, Oxford, 
where he was made Master of Arts in 1623, and Fel- 
low in 1628. The controversy between the Anglican 
and the Roman communions was then at its height. 
Chillingworth fell under the influence of Fisher, a 
learned and able Jesuit, by whom he was so far 
brought over to Romanism as to enter the Catholic 
Seminary at Douay, in France, where he, however, 
remained only a short time; for Laud, his godfather, 
who was at that time Bishop of London, pressed upon 
him arguments against the dogmas and practice of the 
Church of Rome. Chillingworth left Douay in 1631, 
returned to Oxford, and set himself seriously at work 
to examine the respective claims of the two Churches. 


The result was that " on grounds of Scripture and 
reason/' he declared for Protestantism; and in 1634 
wrote, but did not publish, a paper containing a " con- 
futation of the motives which had led him over to 
Rome." He was soon after busied upon his great 
work, The Religion of Protestants a Safe Way to Sal- 
vation, which was issued in 1637, with the formal 
approbation of the Anglican ecclesiastical authorities. 
His theory of the Christian Community is thus 
summed up by himself: 


I am fully assured that God does not, and therefore 
that man ought not, to require any more of any man 
than this: To believe the Scripture to be God's word, 
to endeavor to find the true sense of it and to live accord- 
ing to it. 

Directly after the publication of The Religion of 
Protestants, Chillingworth received several valuable 
ecclesiastical preferments. In the quarrel which arose 
between King Charles I. and the Parliament he took 
the extreme royalist side. He held that "even the un- 
just and tyrannous violence of princes may not be 
resisted, although it may be avoided in the terms of 
our Saviour's direction, * When they persecute you in 
one city, flee into another/ " Chillingworth died when 
the civil war had just fairly begun. His last days 
were spent in a heated controversy with a redoubtable 
preacher, Francis Cheynell, concerning the dispute be* 
tween the King and the Parliament. An edition of 
Chillmgworth's works was printed at Oxford in 1838, 
in three octavo volumes ; one volume of which is taken 
up mainly by a series of sermons preached on various 


occasions. In respect to his double change of faith, 
he thus writes : 


I know a man, that of a moderate Protestant, turned 
a Papist; and the day that he did so was convicted in 
conscience that his yesterday's opinion was an error. 
The same man afterward upon better consideration be- 
came a doubting Papist and of a doubting Papist a 
confirmed Protestant. And yet this man thinks him- 
self no more to blame for all these changes than a 
traveller who using all diligence to find the right way 
to some remote city, did yet mistake it, and after find 
his error and amend it. Nay, he stands upon his justifi- 
cation so far as to maintain that his alterations not only 
to you, but also -from you, by God's mercy, were the 
most satisfactory actions to himself that ever he did, 
and the greatest victories that ever he obtained over 
himself and his affections in those things which in this 
world are most precious. Letter to a Catholic Friend. 


I have learned from the ancient Fathers of the Church 
that nothing is more against religion than to force 
religion; and of Saint Paul that the weapons of the 
Christian warfare are not carnal And great reason; 
for human violence may make men counterfeit, but can- 
not make them believe; and is therefore fit for nothing 
but to breed form without and atheism within. Besides, 
if this means of bringing men to embrace any religion 
were generally used as, if it may be justly used in 
any place by those that have power and think they 
have truth, certainly they cannot with reason deny but 
that it may be used in every place by those that have 
power as well as they, and think they have truth as well 
as they what could follow but the maintenance, per- 
haps, of truth, but perhaps only the profession of it in 
one place and the oppression of it in a hundred? What 
will follow from it but the preservation, peradventure, 


of unity, but, peradventure only of uniformity, in par- 
ticular States and Churches; but the immortalizing of 
the greater and more lamentable divisions of Christen- 
dom and the world? And therefore what can follow 
from it but, perhaps, in the judgment of carnal policy, 
the temporal benefit and tranquillity of temporal states 
and kingdoms, but the infinite prejudice, if not the deso- 
lation, of the Kingdom of Christ? . . . 

But they that know there is a King of kings and Lord 
of lords, by whose will and pleasure kings and kingdoms 
stand and fall, they know that to no King or State any- 
thing can be profitable which is unjust; and that nothing 
can be more evidently unjust than to force weak men, 
by the profession of a religion which they believe not, 
to lose their own eternal happiness out of a vain and 
needless fear lest they may possibly disturb their temporal 
quietness. There is no danger to any State from any 
man's opinion, unless it be such an opinion by which 
disobedience to authority, or impiety, is taught or licensed 

which sort, I confess, may be justly punished, as well 
as other faults; or unless this sanguinary doctrine be 
joined with it, that it is lawful for him by human violence 
to enforce others to it. Therefore, if Protestants did 
offer violence to other men's consciences, and compel 
them to embrace their Reformation, I excuse them not 

The Religion of the Protestants. 


But how is this doctrine [of the forgiveness of in- 
juries] received in the world? what counsel would men 

and those none of the worst sort give thee in such 
a case? How would the soberest, discreetest, well-bred 
Christian advise thee? Why, thus: "If thy brother 
or thy neighbor have offered thee an injury or an af- 
front, forgive him ! " By no means. " Thou art utterly 
undone and lost in reputation with the world, if thou 
dost forgive him. What is to be done, then? Why, let 
not thy heart take rest; let all other business and em- 
ployment be laid aside till thou hast his blood." How! 
A man's blood for an injurious, passionate speech for 


a disdainful look ? Nay, that is not all : that thou mayest 
gain among men the reputation of a discreet, well- 
tempered murderer, be sure thou killest him not in 
passion, when thy blood is hot and boiling with provoca- 
tion; but proceed with as great temper and settledness 
of reason, with as much discretion and preparedness as 
thou wouldst to the Communion; after several days' 
respite, that it may appear it is thy reason guides thee, 
and not thy passion, invite him kindly and courteously 
into some retired place, and there let it be determined 
whether his blood or thine shall satisfy the injury. 

O thou holy Christian religion! Whence is it that thy 
children have sucked this inhuman poisonous blood, these 
raging fiery spirits ? . . . Blessed God ! that it should 
become a most sure and settled course for a man to 
run into danger and disgrace with the world, if he shall 
dare to perform a commandment of Christ, which it 
is as necessary for him to do, if he have any hopes of 
attaining heaven, as meat and drink is for the main- 
taining of life ! That it should ever enter into Christian 
hearts to walk so curiously and exactly contrary unto 
the ways of God. . . . Thou, for a distempered, pas- 
sionate speech, or less, would take upon thee to send 
thy neighbor's soul, or thine own or likely both 
clogged and oppressed with all your sins unrepented of 
(for how can repentance possibly consist with such a 
resolution?) before the tribunal seat of God to expect 
your final sentence; utterly depriving yourself of all 
the blessed means which God has contrived for thy 
salvation, and putting thyself in such an estate that it 
shall not be in God's power almost to do thee any good. 

Pardon, I beseech you, my earnestness, almost intem- 
perateness, seeing that it has proceeded from so just, 
so warrantable a ground. And since it is in your power 
to give rules of honor and reputation to the whole king- 
dom, do not you teach others to be ashamed of this 
inseparable badge of your religion charity and for- 
giving of offences. Give men leave to be Christians, 
without danger or dishonor; or, if religion will not work 
with you, yet let the laws of that State wherein you live, 


the earnest desires and care of your righteous Prince, 
prevail with you. Sermon, preached before Charles L 
and the Court. 

IOATE, JOSEPH HODGES, an American lawyer, 
diplomat and orator; born at Salem, Mass.,, 
January 24, 1832. He was graduated from 
Harvard University in 1852, and from the Harvard 
Law School in 1854. He was admitted to the Massa- 
chusetts bar, and after practicing for a year in Boston, 
he removed to New York city. In 1884 he became a 
member of the firm of Evarts, Choate & Beaman, 
achieving remarkable success as a lawyer. He won 
especial distinction as a trial lawyer, conducting many 
celebrated cases in both the State and Federal courts 
and also in international tribunals. He prosecuted 
several members of the notorious " Tweed " ring of 
corrupt politicians, and appeared in the Tilden will 
contest. He successfully defended General Fitz John 
Porter, and represented the government in the Chinese 
exclusion cases, the income tax cases of 1894, and the 
Bering sea dispute. As long ago as 1856 he became 
active as a Republican and stood high in the councils 
of the party. In 1894 he was president of the New 
York State Constitutional Convention. In 1896 he 
was a prominent candidate for a seat in the United 
States senate, but was defeated by Thomas C. Platt. 
In 1899 President McKinley appointed Mr, Choate to 
succeed John Hay as ambassador to the Court of St. 
James, where he remained .until June, 1905. He is a 
famous orator and after-dinner speaker, sharing with 



Chauncey M. Depew, a well-earned fame as wit and 

Mr. Choate was president of the New England So- 
ciety from 1867 to 1871, president of the Harvard 
Club from 1874 to 1878, and president of the Union 
League Club from 1873 to 1877. His addresses be- 
fore these various bodies are regarded as uniformly 
brilliant efforts and models of eloquence. Mr. Depew 
has said of him. " He is one of the few lawyers who 
has demonstrated his ability to speak with equal elo- 
quence from the platform and in the forum. He has 
a dignified, gracious and commanding presence, added 
to superior ability, great acquirements and oratorical 

Mr. Choate's ideal of " success," as drawn forth in 
an interview, is the attainment of a large capacity for 
work for accomplishment. Wealth, leisure, sump- 
tuous surroundings, " the contest of idleness, knowing 
that enough has been done " these, to common minds 
the markings of success, have for him no such sig- 
nificance. There are nobler things to be sought. The 
others are but " trappings, which neither add to nor 
detract from character." He has always been an elo- 
quent advocate of social, charitable and educational 
movements. His executive abilities are conceded to 
be great. His power of sustained and systematic la- 
bor is unusual. His cultivation of mind and urbanity 
of spirit, his geniality and his gift of repartee, have 
given him remarkable popularity. 


Here is one of Mr. Choate's glowing periods, the 
peroration of a New England Society dinner speech : 


"When that little company of Nonconformists at 
Scrooby, with Elder William Brewster at their head, hav- 
ing lost all but conscience and honor, took their lives in 
their hands and fled to Protestant Holland, seeking noth- 
ing but freedom to worship God in their own way, and to 
earn their scanty bread by the sweat of their brows; when 
they toiled and worshiped there at Leyden for twelve long 
suffering years ; when at last, longing for a larger liberty, 
they crossed the raging Atlantic in that crazy little bark 
that bore at the peak the Cross of St. George, the sole 
emblem of their country and their hopes; when they 
landed in the dead of winter on a stern and rockbound 
coast; when they saw, before the spring came round, half 
of the number of their dear comrades perish of cold and 
want ; when they knew not where to lay their heads 

They little thought how clear a light 
With years should gather round this day, 

How love should keep their memories bright, 
How wide a realm their sons should sway. 

"How the day and the place should be honored as the 
source from which true liberty derived its birth, and 
how at last a nation of fifty millions of freemen should 
bend in homage over their shrine. We honor them for 
their dauntless courage, for their sublime virtue, for their 
self-denial, for their hard work, for their common sense, 
for their ever-living sense of duty, for their fear of God 
that cast out all other fears, and for their raging thirst 
for liberty. In common with all those generations 
through which we trace our proud lineage to their hardy 
stock, we owe a great share of all that we have achieved, 
and all that we enjoy of strength, of freedom, of pros- 
perity, to their matchless virtue and their grand example. 
So long as America continues to love truth and duty, 
so long as she cherishes liberty and justice, she will 
never tire of hearing the praises of the Pilgrims, or of 
heaping fresh incense upon their altar." 


At the dinner of the Friendly Sons of St. Patrick, 
in the evening of March 17, 1893, Mr. Choate said: 


"But, gentlemen, now that you have done so much 
for America now that you have made it all your own 
what do you propose to do for Ireland? How long 
do you propose to let her be the political football of Eng- 
land? Poor, downtrodden, oppressed Ireland! 'Hered- 
itary bondsmen ! Know ye not, who would be free them- 
selves must strike the blow ? ' 

" You have learned how to govern by making all the 
soil of other countries your own. Have you not learned 
how to govern at home; how to make Ireland a land 
of home rule? 

"There's a cure for Ireland's woes and feebleness 
to-day. It is a strong measure that I advocate. I pro- 
pose that you shall all, with your wives and your children 
and your children's children, with the spoils that you 
have taken from America in your hands, set your faces 
homeward, land there, and strike the blow I 

" Think what it would mean for both countries if all 
the Irishmen of America, from the Atlantic to the Pa- 
cific, should shoulder their muskets and march to the 
relief of their native land! 

"Then, indeed, would Ireland be for Irishmen and 
America for Americans! 

" As you landed, the Grand Old Man would come down 
to receive you with paeans of assured victory. As you 
departed, the Republicans would go down to see you 
off and to bid you a joyful farewell. Think of the song 
you could raise: 'We are coming, Father Gladstone, 
15,000,000 strong!' 

"How the British lion would hide his diminished 
head! For such an array would not, only rule Ireland, 
but all other sections of the British Empire. What 
could stand before you? 

" It would be a terrible blow to us. It would take us 
a great while to recover. Feebly, imperfectly, we should 
VOL. V. 27 


look about us and learn for the first time in seventy-five 
years how to govern New York without you. But there 
would be a bond of brotherhood between the two nations. 
Up from the whole soil of Ireland, up from the whole soil 
of America would rise one paean Erin go bragh." 

fHOATE, RUFUS, an American lawyer and ora- 
tor; born at Ipswich, Mass., October i, 1799; 
died at Halifax, Nova Scotia, July 13, 1859. 
At fifteen he entered Dartmouth College, and from 
the first took place at the head of his class. After 
graduating he studied at the Law School in Cam- 
bridge, and afterward entered the office of William 
Wirt, then United States Attorney-General, in Wash- 
ington. He began the practice of his profession at 
Danvers, Mass., but soon removed to Salem, and sub- 
sequently to Boston. While a resident at Salem he 
was elected to Congress. In 1841 he was appointed 
United States Senator, taking the place of Daniel 
Webster, who had accepted the position of Secretary 
of State in the Cabinet of President Harrison. In the 
Senate he made several important speeches upon the 
leading questions of the day. On leaving the Senate, 
in 1845, he returned to Boston, and devoted him- 
self to the practice of his profession, declining all in- 
vitations to accept official positions, though he took 
a deep interest in public affairs, and delivered many 
addresses before literary societies. His health began 
to fail in 1858, and he was compelled to withdraw 
from active life. In the summer of 1859 he set out 
upon a voyage to Europe, but upon reaching Halifax, 



Nova Scotia, he found that he could proceed no fur- 
ther. He took lodgings there, hoping to gain suffi- 
cient strength to enable him to return to Boston; but 
a sudden relapse took place, and he died at Halifax. 
A sketch of his life appeared in The Golden Age of 
American Oratory, by E. G. Parker (1857). The 
Works of Rufus Choate, with a Memoir of his Life, 
by Samuel Oilman Brown, was published in 1862. A 
sixth edition appeared in 1891. 


To form and uphold a State, it is not enough that our 
judgments believe it to be useful; the better part of our 
affections must feel it to be lovely. It is not enough 
that our arithmetic can compute its value, and find it 
high; our hearts must hold it priceless, above all things 
rich or rare, dearer than health or beauty, brighter than 
all the order of the stars. It does not suffice that its in- 
habitants should seem to be men good enough to trade 
with, altogether even as the rest of mankind; ties of 
brotherhood, memories of a common ancestry, common 
traditions of fame and justice, a common and undivided 
inheritance of rights, liberties, and renown these things 
must knit you to them with a distinctive and domestic 
attraction. It is not enough that a man thinks he can 
be an unexceptionable citizen, in the main, unless a very 
unsatisfactory law passes. He must admit into his 
bosom the specific and mighty emotion of patriotism. 
He must love his country, his whole country, as the 
place of his birth or adoption, and the sphere of his 
largest duties; as the playground of his childhood, the 
land where his fathers sleep, the sepulchre of the valient 
and wise, of his own blood and race departed; he must 
love it for the long labors that reclaimed and adorned 
its natural and its moral scenery; for the great traits 
and virtues of which it has been the theatre; for the 
institution and amelioration and progress that enrich it; 
for the part it has played for the succor of the nations. 


A sympathy indestructible must draw him to it. It must 
be a power to touch his imagination. All the passions 
which inspire and animate in the hour of conflict must 
wake at her awful voice. Address on Washington. 


Little indeed anywhere can be added now to that 
wealth of eulogy that has been heaped upon his tomb. 
Before he died, even, renowned in two hemispheres, in 
ours he seemed to be known with a universal nearness 
of knowledge. He walked so long and so conspicuously 
before the general eye; his actions, his opinions, on all 
things which had been large enough to agitate the pub- 
lic mind for the last thirty years and more, had had an 
importance and consequences so remarkable anxiously 
waited for, passionately canvassed, not adopted always 
into the particular measure, or deciding the particular 
vote of government 1 or the country, yet sinking deep 
into the reason of the people a stream of influence 
whose fruits it is yet too soon for political philosophy to 
appreciate completely. 

An impression of his extraordinary intellectual en- 
dowments, and of their peculiar superiority in that most 
imposing and intelligible of all forms of manifestation 
the moving of others' minds by speech had grown so 
universal and fixed, and it had kindled curiosity to hear 
him and read him so wide and so largely indulged; his 
individuality altogether was so absolute and pronounced; 
the force of will no less than the power of genius ; the 
exact type and fashion of his mind, not less than its 
general magnitude were so distinctly shown through his 
musical and transparent style; the exterior of the man 
the grand mystery of brow and eye, the deep tones, 
the solemnity, the sovereignty, as of those who would 
build States, where every power and every grace did 
seem to set its seal had been made by personal obser- 
vation, by description, by the exaggeration, even of those 
who had felt the spell, by Art- the daguerreotype and 
picture and statue, so familiar to the American eye, 
graven on the memory like the Washington of Stuart; 


the narrative of the mere incidents of his life had been 
so often told by some so authentically and with such 
skill and had been so literally committed to heart, that 
when he died there seemed to be little left but to say 
when and how his change came ; with what dignity, with 
what possession of himself, with what loving thought for 
others, with what gratitude to God, uttered with un- 
faltering voice, that it was appointed him there to die: 
to say how thus, leaning on the rod and staff of the 
promise, he took his way into the great darkness undis- 
mayed, till death should be swallowed up of life; and 
then to relate how they laid him in that simple grave, 
and turning and pausing, and joining their voices to the 
voices of the sea, bade him hail and farewell. 

And yet, I hardly know what there is In public 
biography, what there is in literature, to be compared, 
in its kind, with the variety and beauty and adequacy of 
the series of discourses through which the love and grief, 
the deliberate and reasoning admiration of America 
for this great man have been uttered. Little, indeed, 
there would be for me to say, if I were capable of the 
light ambition of proposing to omit all which others 
have said on this theme before; little to add, if I sought 
to say anything wholly new. Eulogy at Dartmouth Col- 


It would be interesting to pause for a moment and 
survey the old English Puritan character, of which the 
Pilgrims were a variety. Turn to the class of which they 
were part, and consider it well for a minute in all its 
aspects. I see in it an extraordinary mental and moral 
phenomenon. Many more graceful and more winning 
forms of human nature there have been, and are, and 
shall be. Many men, many races there are, have been, 
and shall be, of more genial dispositions, more tasteful 
accomplishments; a quicker eye for the beautiful of art 
and nature; less disagreeably absorbed, less gloomily 
careful and troubled about the interests of the spiritual 
being or of the commonwealth ; wearing a more deco- 


rated armor in battle ; contributing more wit, more song, 
and heartier potations to the garland feast of life. But 
where, in the long series of ages that furnish the matter 
of histories, was there ever one where one better 
fitted by the possession of the highest traits of man to 
do the noblest work of man? better fitted to consum- 
mate and establish the Reformation, save the English 
Constitution, at it's last gasp, from the fate of all other 
European Constitutions, and prepare on the granite and 
iced mountain-summits of the New World a still safer 
rest for a still better liberty? . . . 

The planting of a colony in a new world, which may 
grow and which does grow to a great nation, where 
there was none before, is intrinsically, and in the judg- 
ment of the world, of the largest order of human 
achievement. Of the chief of men are the conditores im- 
periorum. To found a State upon a waste earth, where- 
in great numbers of human beings may live together, 
and in successive generations, socially and in peace, 
knit to one another by the innumerous ties, light as air, 
and stronger than links of iron, which compose the 
national existence; wherein they may help each other, 
and be helped in bearing the various lot of life; where- 
in they may enjoy and improve, and impart and heighten 
enjoyment and improvement; and wherein they may 
together perform the great social labors; may reclaim 
and decorate the earth, may disinter the treasures that 
grow beneath its surface, may invent the arts of useful- 
ness and beauty; may perfect the loftier arts of virtue 
and empire, open the richer mines of the universal 
youthful heart and intellect, and spread out a dwelling 
for the Muse on the glittering summits of Freedom:- 
to found such a State is first of heroical labors and 
heroical glories. To build a pyramid or a harbor, to 
write an epic poem, to construct a System of the Uni- 
verse, to take a city, are great or may be but 
faiMess than this. He, then, who set's a colony on foot, 
designs a great work. He designs all the good, and all 
the glory; of which in the series of ages it may be the 
means; and he shall be judged more by the lofty ulti- 


mate aim and result, than by the actual instant 'mo- 
tive. . . - 

I have said that I deemed it a great thing for a na- 
tion, in all periods of its fortunes, to be able to look 
back to a race of founders, and a principle of institution, 
in which it might seem to see the realized idea of true 
heroism. That felicity, that pride, that help is ours. 
Our Past both its great eras, that of Settlement and 
that of Independence should announce, should compel, 
should spontaneously evolve as from a germ, a wise, 
moral and glorious future. These heroic men and 
women should not look down on a dwindled posterity. 
It should seem to be almost of course too easy to be 
glorious that they who keep the graves, bear the 
names, and boast the blood, of men in whom the loftiest 
sense of duty blended itself with the fiercest spirit of 
Liberty, should add to their freedom Justice: justice 
to all men, to all nations; Justice, that venerable virtue, 
without which Freedom, Valor, and Power are but vul- 
gar things. 

And yet is the Past nothing even our Past but as 
you, quickened by its examples, instructed by its experi- 
ence, warned by its voices, assisted by its accumulated 
instrumentality, shall reproduce it in the life of to-day. 
Its once busy existence, various sensations, fiery trials, 
dear-bought triumphs ; its dynasty of heroes, all its pulses 
of joy and anguish, and hope and fear, and love and 
praise, are with the years beyond the flood. " The sleep- 
ing and the dead are but as pictures." Yet, gazing on 
these, long and intently and often, we may pass into 
the likeness of the departed; may emulate their labors, 
and partake of their immortality. Address before New 
England Association, 1843. 


critic; born at Blackley Hurst, December 15, 
1808; died at London, February 15, 1872. He 
came of an old Lancashire family impoverished by 
their devotion to the Stuarts. Chorley wished to de- 
vote himself to music, but was placed in a commercial 
house in Liverpool, a situation so irksome to him, that 
he resolved to release himself from it. In 1834, with- 
out resources except his knowledge of music, he went 
to London, where, he became connected with the 
Athenceum, in the department of musical criticism. 
His principal works are Conti the Discarded, and other 
Tales; Sketches of a Seaport Town; Memorials of 
Mrs. Hemans; Lion, a Tale of the Coteries; Music 
and Manners in France and Germany; Pomfret; Au- 
thors of England and Thirty Years' Musical Recol- 
lections. He also wrote the librettos of several musi- 
cal plays, among them St. Cecilia; Old Love and New 
Fortune; and Faust. 

It is well remarked by Dr. Garnet that Chorley's 
leading position as a critic necessarily gained him 
warm friendships and bitter enmities. " The latter 
need not be recorded; the former constitute a list of 
which any man might be proud. It is a high testi- 
mony to his worth that they include not merely fol- 
lowers of literature and art, whom he might have 
placed under obligation, such as Dickens, Miss Mit- 
ford, Lady Blessington, Mr. and Mrs. Browning, 
Mendelssohn, and Moscheles, but men so far aloof 
from ordinary literary coteries as Grote and Sir Will- 
iam Molesworth. His tenderest attachments seem to 
have been those he entertained for Mendelssohn and 


the son of his benefactor, Benson Rathbone ; his great- 
est intimacy that with Dickens, who, if he had not 
displeased him, would have inherited a ring e in mem- 
ory of one greatly helped/ Help was indeed needed 
to soothe Chorley's declining years the deceptions 
and irritations incident to a sensitive nature grievously 
misunderstood, the failure to form any true intimate 
tie, the consequent sensation of loneliness, the frequent 
painful estrangements due to the irritability thus en- 
gendered, the wearing ense of the hopeless malady 
of his sister and the shock of his brother's death, com- 
bined to render his latter years querulous and dis- 
consolate and to foster habits of self-indulgence detri- 
mental to his happiness and self-respect as far as they 
proceeded though they did not proceed far." " His 
musical ear and memory," writes Julian Marshall, 
" were remarkable, and his acquaintance with musical 
works was very extensive. He spared no pains to 
make up for the deficiency of his early training, and 
from first to last was conspicuous for honesty and in- 
tegrity. Full of strong prejudices, yet with the high- 
est sense of honor, he frequently criticised those whom 
he esteemed more severely than those whom he dis- 
liked. The natural bias of his mind was undoubtedly 
toward conversatism in art, but he was often ready to 
acknowledge dawning or unrecognized genius, whose 
claims he would with unwearied pertinacity urge upon 
the public." 


Betimes the next morning I was on my way to St. 
Sebald's church, to assist in the celebration of the an- 
niversary of the Reformation. For this I could have 
imagined a more fitting locale than was made up by the 


presence of all those saints and angels and Coronations 
of the Virgin, and those candles and crucifixes, and that 
ever-burning Tucher light, and those escutcheoned 
monuments. The psalms for the day were advertised 
at the church doors, where also a kind of voluntary 
contribution was going on, every one quietly putting in 
his poor's penny as he passed the corner where stood 
the dried-up holy-water vase. The building was filling 
rapidly with a congregation thoroughly piebald in ap- 
pearance. Old women were there in stiff buckram bon- 
nets, which might pass for the head-gear of the Sisters 
of Charity; burghers in every pattern of miitze and 
upper benjamin: with abundance of peasant men and 
women, the latter putting all modern fashionists to 
shame by the grace of their traditional head-dress a 
composition of black ribbon with pendent loops behind, 
a caul of silver filigree, and sometimes a forehead-band 
of gay red or blue. There was as much walking about 
among the men as can be seen in any Catholic chuch 
(I caught a glimpse of the Schnellpost Hylas wandering 
about) ; I cannot add as much of that abstracted and 
silent devotion among the women, which is so remark- 
able and worthy an object of imitation in the behavior 
of those attending what some have been pleased to call 
" the idolatrous sacrifice of the Mass." 

Short time I had to look round me and note as little 
as this; for, while I was considering the remarkable 
mixture of creeds past and present which the scene pre- 
sented, the organ burst out, and with it a thousand 
voices, into a grand Lutheran choral, which I had in 
vain sought for in Herr Schneider's choir-book. It will 
be best known to the reader as the tune tortured to 
stage uses by Meyerbeer in Les Huguenots. But what 
were all Meyerbeer's effects, produced by " rhyming 
and twirling" that noble old psalm, compared with the 
grandeur of this? I have never been more strongly 
moved by music. As verse after verse of the grand 
tune rolled through the dim vaults of the church with a 
mighty triumph, it appeared to my fancy as if the effi- 
gies and pictures on the walls began to shake and trem- 


ble and fade; the Saints to droop their heads deject- 
edly; and the votive light, from which, somehow or 
other, I never strayed far when in the church of St 
Sebald, to flicker as if it were about to expire. 

The aspect of the congregation, too, seemed to under- 
go a metamorphosis, as if. a sternness and defiance came 
up into the eyes and lips of the people while they joined 
loudly and heartily in the plain but lofty song of trust 
and thanksgiving. I see before me now one stout old 
man, who was sitting by himself, psalter in hand, with 
a Geneva cap on his head a study for a Balfour 
of Burley singing at the very top of his Lutheran 
lungs, at the very feet of such a sweet, angelic, palm- 
bearing saint, who drooped from her niche above him I 
And as I looked and listened, strange was the conflict 
between the homage due to those ancient and bold 
thinkers who broke for the world the cerements in 
which Mind was becoming decrepit, and between a nat- 
ural yearning after that still elder faith which was ad- 
dressing the heart through the eye with a power not to 
be withstood, even at the moment that the ear was ring- 
ing with the triumph of its exultation. Music and 
Manners in France and Germany. 


A song for the Oak, the brave old Oak, 

Who hath ruled the greenwood long; 
Here's health and renown to his brave green crown 

And his fifty arms so strong. 
There's fear in his frown, when the sun goes down, 

And the fire in the west fades out, 
And he showeth his might on a wild midnight, 

When the storms through his branches shout 

Then here's to the Oak, the brave old Oak 
Who standeth in his pride alone, 

And still -flourish he, a hale green tree, 
When a hundred years are gone! 


In the days of old, when the Spring with gold 

Has freighted the branches gray, 
Through the grass at his feet crept the maidens sweet, 

To gather the dew of May. 
And on that day, to the rebec gay, 

They frolicked with lovesorne swains. 
They are gone, they are dead, in the church-yard laid; 

But the tree, it still remains. 

Then here's to the Oak, etc. 

He saw rare times when the Christmas chimes 

Were a merry sound to hear, 
When the Squire's wide hall and the cottage small 

Were filled with good English cheer. 
Now gold hath the sway that we all obey, 

And a ruthless king is he; 
But he ne'er shall send our ancient friend 

To be tossed on the stormy sea. 

Then here's to the Oak, etc. 

L YSOSTOM, JOHN, SAINT, a Father of the 
Greek Church and Archbishop of Constanti- 
~*~~ nople; born at Antioch, Syria, about 347; died 
at Comana, Cappadocia, September 4, 4O7- The last 
of the great Christian sophists who came from the 
schools of heathen rhetoric, he was the son of Secun- 
das, Commander of the Imperial Army in Syria. His 
original name was merely John; that of Chrysostom, 
" Goldenmouth," having been given to him on account 
of his eloquence. He was of a noble Greek family 
which emigrated to Antioch from Byzantium. He 
early distinguished himself in the rhetorical school of 
Libanius; but on becoming an ardent Christian, he 


retired to the desert, where he spent six years in an 
ascetic and studious life. It is said that he spent two 
years alone in a damp, unwholesome cavern in com- 
miting the Bible to memory. His health falling, he 
returned to Antioch, where he was induced to enter 
into the active service of the Church, being ordained 
deacon in 381, presbyter in 386, and was soon recog- 
nized as the foremost pulpit orator of the day. A 
series of Homilies on "The Statues'" delivered at 
Antioch, are among his extant writings. They were 
occasioned by the prospect of severe measures threat- 
ened by the Emperor Theodosius, whose statues had 
been destroyed by the people of Antioch. An extract 
from the first of these Homilies will show the practical 
character of Chrysostom's preaching in the early part 
of his career : 


Permit me to say something of the virtue of Timothy, 
and the solicitude of Paul. For what was ever more 
tender-hearted than this man, who being so far distant, 
and encircled with so many cares, exercised so much 
consideration for the health of his disciple's stomach, 
and wrote with exact attention about the correction of 
his disorder? And what could equal the virtue of Tim- 
othy? He so despised luxury, and derided the sump- 
tuous table, as to fall into sicjpiess from excessive 
severity of diet, and intense fasting. For that he was 
not naturally so infirm a person, but had overthrown 
the strength of his stomach by fasting and water- 
drinking, you may hear Paul himself carefully making 
this plain. For he does not simply say, "Use a little 
wine;" but having said before, "Drink no longer 
water," he then brings forward Hs counsel as to the 
drinking of wine. And this expression, "no longer," 
was a manifest proof that till then he had drunk water, 
and on that account was become infirm. Who then 


would not wonder at his divine wisdom and strictness? 
He laid hold on the very heavens, and sprang to the 
very highest point of virtue. And his teacher testifies 
this when he thus speaks : " I have sent unto you Tim- 
othy, who is my beloved and faithful son in the Lord ; " 
and when Paul calls him " a son," and a " beloved and 
faithful son," these- words are sufficient to show that he 
possessed every kind of virtue. For the judgments of 
the saints are not given according to favor or enmity, 
but are free from all prejudice. 

Timothy would not have been so enviable if he had 
been Paul's son naturally, as he was now so admirable, 
inasmuch as having no connection with him according 
to the flesh, he introduced himself by the relation of 
piety into the Apostle's adoption; preserving the char- 
acter of his discipline with exactness under all circum- 
stances. For even as a young bullock linked to a bull, 
so he drew the yoke along with him to whatever part 
of the world he went; and did not draw it the less on 
account of his youth, but his ready will made him imi- 
tate the labors of his teacher. And of this Paul himself 
was again a witness, when he said : " Let no "man de- 
spise him, for he worketh the will of the Lord, as I also 
do." See you how he bears witness that the ardor of 
Timothy was the very counterpart of his own. Homily 
on I. Timothy, v* 23. 

In 397 Eutropius, the Minister of the Emperor Ar- 
cadius, made Chrysostom Archbishop of Constanti- 
nople. In this exalted position he still retained his 
simple monastic habits, devoting the immense revenues 
ol the See to benevolent and pious uses, and increas- 
ing his fame as a preacher. But his zeal aroused 
enemies, especially at Court ; prominent among whom 
was the Empress Eudoxia, against whom Chrysostom 
had severely inveighed. A pretext was found for 
proceeding against him. A synod was convened to 
try him. He refused to appear before the tribunal; 


was condemned for contumacy and sentenced by the 
Emperor to banishment to Nicsea, in Bithynia. No 
sooner was this done than a tumult arose in the city. 
The people demanded the recall of their Archbishop, 
and the Emperor yielded to the clamor. Chrysostom 
renewed his attacks upon the Empress. A new synod 
was convened, which re-affirmed the decision of the 
former one; and sentenced him afresh for having re- 
sumed his episcopal functions without due permission. 
His place of banishment was fixed at the desolate 
town of Cucusus, among the Taurus mountains. 
From this obscure retreat he exercised a more potent 
influence than he had done at Constantinople. The 
Emperor ordered that he should be removed to the 
distant desert of Pityus. On the way he died, at the 
age of sixty years. This exile caused a schism in the 
Church at Constantinople, the "Johnists," as his ad- 
herents were called, refusing to return to communion 
with the succeeding Archbishops of Constantinople un- 
til thirty years after, when the relics of Chrysostom 
were pompously brought back, and the Emperor pub- 
licly implored the foregiveness of Heaven for the guilt 
of his ancestors. 

Chrysostom is regarded as by far the greatest of 
the Greek Fathers. His memory is reverenced alike 
by the Greek and Latin communions, the former of 
which celebrates his day on November 13, the latter 
on January 27. The writings of Chrysostom are 
very numerous. They consist of Commentaries upon 
the whole Bible, of which, however, only a portion are 
extant ; Epistles, to various people ; treatises on Provi- 
dence, the Priesthood, etc. ; Liturgies; and, most val- 
uable of all, Homilies upon the Gospels of Matthew 
and John, the Acts of the. Apostles, and the Pauline 


Epistles. The earliest good edition of the works of 
Chrysostom (in Greek) is that of Sir Henry Saville 
(8 vols. folio, Oxford, 1612.) In 1718-38 appeared 
at Paris the great Montfaucon Edition, Greek, with a 
Latin translation (13 vols. folio), reprinted several 
times subsequently; last, with improvements, by the 
Abbe Migne, in 1863. There is an excellent trans- 
lation of the Homilies into English (13 vols. octavo, 
Oxford, 1840). The Life of Chrysostom has been 
well written by Neander and translated into English 
by Stapleton. Later and best of all the works upon 
the subject, is Saint Chrysostom: His Life and Times, 
by Rev, W. R. W. Stephens (1872). 


Why can it have been that when there were so many 
disciples, two only write from among the Apostles, and 
two from among their followers? It was because noth- 
ing was done for vain-glory, but all things for use. One 
Evangelist, indeed, was sufficient, but if there be four 
that wrote, not all at the same times, nor in the same 
places, neither after having met together and conversed 
one with another., and then they spake all this, as it were, 
out of one mouth, this becomes a very great demonstra- 
tion of their truth. " But the contrary," it may be said, 
"hath come to pass; for in places they are convicted 
of discordance." Nay, this very thing is a great evi- 
dence of their truth. For if they had agreed in all 
things exactly,, even to time and place, and to the very 
words, none of our enemies would have believed but 
that they had met together, and had written what they 
wrote by some human compact; because such extreme 
'agreement as this cometh not of simplicity. But now 
even that discordance which seems to exist in little 
matters delivers them from all suspicion, and speaks 
clearly in behalf of the character of the writers. 

But if there be anything touching times or places 


which they have related differently, this nothing injures 
the truth of what they have said. In the chief heads 
those which constitute our life and furnish out our 
doctrines, nowhere is any of them found to have dis- 
agreed; no, not ever so little. These chief points are 
such as follows : That God became man ; that he wrought 
miracles; that he was crucified, that he was buried; that 
he rose again, that he ascended; that he will judge; 
that he has given commandments tending to salvation; 
that he hath brought in a law not contrary to the Old 
Testament; that he is a Son; that he is Only-Begotten; 
that he is a true Son; that he is of the same Substance 
with the Father; and as many things as are like these. 
Touching these, we shall find that there is in them a full 

And if among the miracles they have not all of them 
mentioned all but one these, the other those let not 
this trouble thee. For if, on the one hand, one had 
spoken of all, the number of the rest would have been 
superfluous. And if, again, all had written fresh things, 
and different one from another, the proof of their agree- 
ment would not have been manifest. For this cause 
they have both treated of many in common, and each 
of them hath also received and declared something of 
his own; that, on the one hand, he might not seem 
superfluous, and cast on the heap to no purpose; on 
the other he might make our test of the truth of their 
affirmations perfect. Homily I. on Matthew. 


As many, therefore, as stand indebted to thee, 
whether for money or for trespasses, let them all go 
free, and require of God the recompense of such thy 
magnanimity. For so long as they continue indebted 
to thee, thou canst not have God thy debtor. But if 
thou let them go free., thou wilt be able to detain thy 
God, and to require of him the recompense of so great 
self-restraint in bountiful measure. For suppose a man 
had come up, and seeing thee arresting thy debtor, had 
called upon thee to let him go free, and transfer to hitn- 
VOL. V. 28 


self thy account with the other; he would not choose 
to be unfair after such remission, seeing he had passed 
the whole amount to himself. How then shall God fail 
to repay us manifold, yea, a thousand fold, when for his 
commandment's sake, if any be indebted to us, we urge 
no complaint against them, great or small, but let them 
go exempt from all liability? Let us not then think of 
the temporary pleasure that springs up in us by exact- 
ing of our debtors, but of the loss, rather, how great! 
which we shall thereby sustain hereafter, grievously in- 
juring ourselves in the things which are eternal. Ris- 
ing accordingly above all, let us forgive those who must 
give account to us, both of their debts and offences; 
that we may make our own accounts prove indulgent, 
and that which we could not reach by all virtue besides, 
this we may obtain by not bearing malice against our 
neighbors; and thus enjoy the eternal blessings.,, by the 
grace and love toward man of our Lord Jesus Christ, 
to whom be glory and might now and always, even for 
ever and ever. Amen. Homily XV. on Matthew. 


If any one accuses the ancient Law, because it com- 
mands such retaliation, he seems to me to be very un- 
skilful in the wisdom that becomes a legislator, and 
ignorant of the virtue of opportunities, and the gain of 
condescension. For if he considered who were the 
hearers of these sayings, and how they received this 
code of laws, he will thoroughly atjmit the wisdom of 
the Lawgiver; and will see that it is one and the same 
who made both those laws and these, and wrote each of 
them profitably and in its due season. Yes, for if at 
the beginning he had introduced these high and weighty 
commandments, men would not have received either 
these or the other; but now ordaining them severally 
in their due time, he hath by the two corrected the 
whole world. And besides, he commanded this, not that 
we might strike out one another's eyes, but that we might 
keep our hands to ourselves; for the threat of suffering 
hath effectually restrained our inclination to be doing. 


And thus in fact, he is silently dropping a seed of 
much self-restraint, at least in that he commands to re- 
taliate with just the same acts. Yet surely, he that 
began such transactions were worthy of a greater 
punishment; and this the abstract nature of justice 
demands. But forasmuch as he was inclined to mingle 
mercy with justice, he condemns him whose offences 
were very great to a punishment less than his desert; 
teaching us, even while we suffer, to show forth great 
consideration. Having therefore mentioned the ancient 
law, and recognized it all, he signifies again, that it is 
not our brother who hath done these deeds, but the 
Evil One. For this cause he hath also enjoined, " But 
I say unto you that ye resist not the Evil One." He 
doth not say, " Resist not your brother/ 1 but " the 
Evil One ; " signifying that on his motion men dare so 
to act; and in this way relaxing and secretly removing 
most of our anger against the aggressor, by transfer- 
ring the blame to another. Homily XVIII. on Matthew. 


What is "daily bread?" That for one day. For as 
he had said thus, "Thy will be done in earth as it is in 
heaven ; " but was discoursing to men encompassed 
with flesh, and subject to the necessities of nature, and 
incapable of the same impassibility with the angels; 
while he enjoins the commands to be practised by us 
also, even as they perform them; he condescends like- 
wise, in what follows, to the infirmity of our nature. 
Thus : " Perfection of conduct," saith he, " I require as 
great; not, however, freedom from passions. No, for 
the tyranny of nature permits it not; for it requires 
necessary food." But mark, how even in things that 
are bodily, that which is spiritual abounds. For it is 
neither for riches, nor for delicate living, nor for costly 
raiment, nor for any other such things, but for bread 
only that he hath commanded us to make our prayer. 
And for " daily bread," so as not to " take thought for 
the morrow." Because of this he added "daily bread;" 
that is, bread for one day. And not even with this ex- 


pression is he satisfied; but adds another too after- 
wards, " Give us this day ; " so that we may not, beyond 
this wear ourselves out with the care of the following 
day. For that day, the interval which thou knowest 
not whether thou shalt see, wherefore dost thou submit 
to its cares? This, as he proceeded, he enjoined also 
more fully, saying: "Take no thought for the mor- 
row." He would have us be on every hand unencum- 
bered and winged for flight, yielding just so much to 
nature as the compulsion of necessity requires of us, 
Homily XXL on Matthew. 


He sets forth the things that are more painful, and 
that with great aggravation; and the objections they 
were sure to meet him with, he prevents them by stat- 
ing. I mean, lest hearing this they should say: "For 
this, then art thou come to destroy both us and them 
that obey us, and to fill the earth with war." He first 
saith himself, " I am not come to send peace on earth*" 
How then did he enjoin to pronounce peace on entering 
into each house? And again, how did the Angels say, 
" Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace ? " 
How came all the Prophets too to publish it for "good 

Because this more than anything is peace when the 
diseased is cut off, and the mutinous removed. For 
thus is it possible for Heaven to be united to Earth. 
Since the physician, too, in his way, preserves the rest 
of the body when he amputates the incurable part; and 
the general, when he has brought to a separation them 
that were agreed in mischief. Thus it came to pass in 
the case of that famous Tower of Babel; for their evil 
peace was ended by their good discord, and peace made 
thereby. Thus Paul also divided them that were con- 
spiring against him. And in Naboth's case, that agree- 
ment was at the time more grievous than any war. For 
concord is not in every case a good thing, since even 
robbers agree together. 
The war is not then the effect of His purpose, but of 


their temper. For His will indeed was that all should 
agree in the word of godliness; but because they fell 
to dissension, war arises. Yet he spake not so; but 
what saith he ? "I am not come to send peace/' com- 
forting them. As if He said, " For think not that ye are 
to blame for these things ; it is I who order them so, be- 
cause men are so disposed. Be not ye, therefore, con- 
founded, as though the event happened against expecta- 
tion. To this end am I come, to send war among men; 
for this is my will. Be not ye therefore troubled when 
the earth is at war, as though it were subject to some 
hostile device. For when the worst part is rent away, 
then after that, heaven is knit unto the better." And 
these things he saith, as strengthening them against the 
evil suspicion of the multitude. Homily XXXL on 


Wherefore did he look up to heaven and bless? It 
was to be believed of him, both that he is of the Father 
and that he is equal to Him. But the proofs of these 
things seemed to oppose one another. For while his 
equality was indicated by his doing all with authority, 
of his origin from the Father they could not otherwise 
be persuaded than by his doing all with great lowliness, 
and with reference to Him, and invoking Him on all 
his works. Wherefore we see that he neither did these 
achievements only, nor those, but that both might be 
confirmed; and now he invokes miracles with authority, 
now with prayer. 

Then again, that which he did might not seem an in- 
consistency, in the lesser things he looks up to heaven, 
but in the greater doth all with authority; to teach that 
in the lesser also, that not as receiving power from else- 
where, but as honoring Him that begat him, so he acts. 
For example: When he forgave sins and opened Para- 
dise, and brought in the thief, and most utterly set 
aside the old law, and raised innumerable dead, and 
bridled the sea, and reproved the unuttered thoughts of 
men, and created an eye (which are achievements of 


God only, and none else), we see him in no instance 
praying; but when he provided for the loaves to multi- 
ply themselves (a far less thing than all these), then he 
looks up to heaven; at once establishing those truths 
which I have spoken of, and instructing us not to touch 
a meal until we have given thanks to Him who giveth 
us this food. Homily LVIL on Matthew. 


The Son of Thunder, the beloved of Christ, the pillar 
of the Churches throughout the world, who holds the 
keys of Heaven, who drank the cup of Christ, and was 
baptized with His baptism, who lay upon his Master's 
bosom with much confidence this man comes forward 
to us now; not as an actor of a play (for he hath an- 
other sort of words to speak), nor mounting a platform, 
nor striking the stage with his foot, nor dressed out 
with apparel of gold; but he enters wearing a robe of 
inconceivable beauty. For he will appear before us 
" having put on Christ ; " having his beautiful feet 
"shod with the preparation of the Gospel of Peace;" 
wearing a girdle not about his waist, but about his 
loins, not made of scarlet leather, nor daubed outside 
with gold, but woven and composed of truth itself. 
Now will he appear before us not acting a part (for with 
him is nothing counterfeit, nor . fiction; nor fable) ; but 
with unmasked head he proclaims to us the truth un- 
masked; not making his audience believe him other 
than he is, by carriage, by looks, by voice; needing for 
the delivery of his message no instruments of music, as 
harp, lyre, or any other like; for he affects all with his 
tongue, uttering a voice which is lovelier and more 
profitable than that of any harper or any music. All 
heaven is his stage; his theatre the habitable world; 
his audience all angels, and of men as many as are 
angels already, or desire to become so; for none but 
these can hear that harmony aright, and show it forth 
by their works ; all the rest like little children who hear, 
but what they hear understand not, from their anxiety 
about sweetmeats and childish playthings; so they, too, 


being in mirth and luxury, and living only for wealth 
and power and sensuality, hear sometimes what is said, 
it is true, but show forth nothing great or noble in their 
actions, though fastening themselves for good to the 
clay of the brickmaking. By this Apostle stand the 
Heavenly Powers from above, marvelling at the beauty 
of his soul and his understanding, and the bloom of that 
virtue by which he drew unto him Christ Himself, and 
obtained the grace of the Spirit. For he hath made 
ready his soul, as some well- fashioned and jewelled lyre, 
with strings of gold, and yielded it, for the utterance of 
something great and sublime, to the Spirit 

Seeing, then, it is no longer the fisherman, the Son of 
Zebedee, but He who "knoweth the deep things of 
God" the Holy Ghost, I mean, that striketh this lyre, 
let us hearken accordingly. For he will say nothing to 
us as a man, but what he saith, he will say from the 
depths of the Spirit, from those secret things which, 
before they came to pass, the very Angels knew not: 
since they too have learned by the voice of John, with us 
and by us, the things which we know. Homily I. on 


As for the writings of all the Greeks, they are all put 
out and vanished; but this man's shine brighter day 
by day. For from the time that he was, and the 
other fishermen, since then the doctrines of Pythago- 
ras and Plato have ceased to be spoken of, and most 
men do not know them even by name. Yet Plato was, 
they say, the invited companion of kings, had many 
friends, and sailed to Sicily. And Pythagoras occupied 
Magna Grsecia, and preached there ten thousand kinds 
of sorcery. For to converse with oxen (which they 
say he did) was nothing but a piece of sorcery; as is 
most clear from this: He that so conversed with 
brutes, did not in anything benefit the race of men, 
but even did them the greatest wrong. Yet surely 
the nature of men was better adapted for the reason- 
ing of philosophy. Still he did, as they say, converse 


with eagles and oxen, using sorceries. For he did not 
make their irrational nature rational (this was impossi- 
ble to man) ; but by his magic tricks he deceived the 
foolish. And neglecting to teach men anything use- 
ful, he taught that they might as well eat the heads of 
those who begot them, as eat beans. And he persuaded 
those who associated with him that the soul of their 
teacher had actually been at one time a bush, at another 
a girl, at another a fish. 

Are not these things with good cause extinct? With 
good cause and reasonably. But not so the words of 
him who was ignorant and unlettered; for Syrians and 
Egyptians and Indians and Persians and Ethiopians, 
and ten thousand other nations, translating into their 
own tongues the doctrines introduced by him bar- 
barians though they be have learned to philosophize. 
I did not therefore say idly that all the world has become 
his theatre. For he did not leave those of his own kind, 
and waste his labors on the irrational creatures (an act 
of excessive vain-glory and extreme folly) ; but being 
clear of this as well as of other passions, he was earnest 
on one point only that all the world might learn some- 
what of the tjiings which might profit it, and be able to 
translate from Earth to Heaven. 

For this reason, too, he did not hide his teaching in 
mist and darkness, as they did who threw obscurity of 
speech, like a kind of veil, around the mischief laid up 
within. But this man's doctrines are clearer than the 
sunbeams; wherefore they have been unfolded to all men 
throughout the world. For he did not teach, as Pythag- 
oras did, commanding those who came to him to be 
silent for five years, or to sit like senseless stones ; neither 
did he invent fables defining the universe to consist of 
numbers; but casting away all this devilish trash and 
mischief, he diffused such simplicity through his words, 
that all he said was plain not only to wise men, but also 
to women and youths. For he was persuaded that his 
words were true, and profitable to all that should hearken 
to them; and all time after him is his witness; since he 
has drawn to him all the world, and has freed our life, 


when we have listened to these words, from all monstrous 
display of wisdom: wherefore we who hear them would 
prefer rather to give up our lives than the doctrines by 
him delivered to us. Homily II. on John. 


To this place Christ now came, ever rejecting a seden- 
tary and soft life, and exhibiting one laborious and active. 
He useth no beast to carry him, but walketh so much on a 
stretch as even to be wearied with his journeying. And 
this he ever teacheth that a man should work for 
himself, go without superfluities, and not have many 
wants. Nay, so desirous is he that we should be 
alienated from superfluities, that he abridged many even 
of necessary things. Wherefore he said: " Foxes have 
holes, and birds of the air have nests, but the Son of 
Man hath not where to lay his head." Therefore he 
spent most of his time in the mountains and in the 
deserts, not by day only, but alsb by night. And this 
David declared when he said, "He shall drink of the 
brook in the way;" by this showing his frugal way of 
life. This, too, the Evangelist shows in this place. 
Hence we learn, from what follows, his activity in jour- 
neying, his carelessness about food, and how he treated 
it as a matter of minor importance. And so the disciples 
were taught to use the like disposition themselves; for 
they took with them no provisions for the road. Ob- 
serve them, for instance, in this place, neither bringing 
anything with them, nor because they brought not any- 
thing, caring for this at the very beginning and early part 
of the day, but buying food at the time when all other 
people were taking their meal. Not like us, who the 
instant we rise from our beds attend to this before every- 
thing else,' calling our cooks and butlers, and giving our 
directions with all earnestness, applying ourselves after- 
wards to other matters, preferring temporal things to 
spiritual, valuing those things as necessary which we 
ought to have deemed of less importance. Therefore all 
things are in confusion. We ought, on the contrary, 
making much account of all spiritual things, after having 


accomplished these, then to apply ourselves to the others. 
Homily XXL on John. 


" For as the Father hath life in Himself, so hath he 
given to the Son to have life in Himself." Seest thou 
that this declareth a perfect likeness, save in one point, 
which is the one being a Father, and the other a Son? 
For the expression "hath given," merely introduceth 
this distinction; but declareth that all the rest is equal 
and exactly alike. Whence it is clear that the Son 
doeth all things with as much power and authority as 
the Father; and that he is not empowered from some 
other source; for he "hath life, so as the Father hath." 
And on this account what comes after is straightway 
added, that from this we may understand the other 
also ; " Hath given him authority to execute judgment 
also." Homily XXIV. on John. 


Beloved, let us not contend with violent men, but 
learn, when the doing so brings no hurt to our virtue, 
to give place to their evil counsels; for so all their 
harshness is checked. As darts when they fall upon a 
firm, hard, and resisting substance, rebound with great 
violence on those who throw them, but when the 
violence of the cast hath nothing to oppose it, it soon 
becometh weaker and ceaseth; so it is with insolent 
men. When we contend with them they become the 
fiercer, but when we yield and give ground, we easily 
abate all their madness. Wherefore the Lord when he 
knew that the Pharisees had heard "that Jesus made 
and baptized more disciples than John/' went into Gali- 
lee to quench their envy, and to soften 'by his retirement 
the wrath which was likely to be engendered by these 
reports. And when he departed the second time into 
Galilee, he cometh not to the same place as before; for 
he went not to Cana, but to " the other side of the Sea," 
and great multitudes followed him, beholding the 
miracles which he did. 


What miracles? Why doth he not mention them 
specifically? Because this Evangelist most of all was 
desirous of employing the greater part of his book on 
the discourses and sermons of Christ Observe, for in- 
stance, how for a whole year or rather how even at 
this feast of Passover he hath given us no more infor- 
mation on the head of miracles than merely that he 
healed the paralytic and the nobleman's son. Because 
he was not anxious to enumerate them all (that would 
have been impossible), but of many and great to record 
a few, Homily XLIL on John. 


"I am the bread of life." Now he proceedeth to 
commit unto them mysteries. And first he discourseth 
of his Godhead, saying: "I am the bread of life." For 
this is not spoken of his Body (concerning which he 
saith towards the end, "And the bread which I shall 
give is my flesh ") ; but at present he refers to his God- 
head. For that, through God the Word, is Bread, as 
this bread also, through the Spirit descending on it, is 
made Heavenly Bread. 

Here he useth not witnesses as in his former address; 
for he had the miracle of the loaves to witness to him, 
and the Jews themselves for a while pretended to be- 
lieve him; in the former case they opposed and accused 
him. This is the reason why he declareth himself. But 
they, since they expected to enjoy a carnal feast, were 
not disturbed until they gave up their hope. Yet not 
for that was Christ silent, but uttered many words of 
reproof. For they, who while they were eating, called 
him a prophet, were here offended, and called him the 
carpenter's son. Not so while they ate the loaves; then 
they said, " He is the Prophet ; " and desired to make 
him a King. Now they seemed to be indignant, at his 
asserting that he " came down from Heaven ; " but in 
truth it was not this which caused their indignation, 
but the thought that they should not enjoy a material 
feast. Had they been really indignant, they ought to 
have asked, and enquired how he was "the bread of 


life;" how he had " come down from heaven; " but now 
they do not do this, but murmur. Homily XLV. on 


Awful in truth are the Mysteries of the Church; 
awful in truth is the Altar. A fountain went up out of 
Paradise, sending forth material rivers. From this 
Table springeth up a fountain which sendeth forth rivers 
spiritual. By the side of this fountain are planted not 
fruitless willows, but trees reaching even to heaven, 
bearing fruit timely and undecaying If any be scorched 
with heat, let him come to the side of this fountain and 
cool his burning. For it quencheth drought, and com- 
forteth all things that are burnt up, not by the sun, but 
by fiery darts. For it hath its beginnings from above, 
and its source is there, whence also its water floweth. 
Many are the streams of that fountain which the Com- 
forter sendeth forth, and the Son is the Mediator, not 
holding mattock to clear the way, but opening our 
minds. This fountain is a fountain of light, sparkling 
forth rays of truth. By it stand the Powers on High, 
looking upon the beauty of its streams, because they 
more clearly perceive the power of the Things set forth, 
and the flashings unapproachable. For as when gold is 
being molten, if one should (were it possible) dip in it 
his hand or his tongue, he would immediately render 
them golden thus, but in much greater degree, doth 
that which here is set forth work upon the soul. Fiercer 
than fire the river boileth up, yet burneth not, but only 
baptizeth that on which it layeth hold. 

This Blood was ever typefied of old in the altars and 
sacrifices of righteous men. This is the price of the 
world ; by this Christ purchased to Himself the Church ; 
by this he hath adorned her. For as a man buying 
servants giveth gold for them, and again when he de- 
sireth to deck them out, doth this also with gold; so 
Christ hath purchased us with His blood, and adorned 
us with His blood. They who share this blood, stand 
with Angels and Archangels and the Powers that are 


above, clothed in Christ's own kingly robe, and having 
the armor of the Spirit. Nay, I have not as yet said 
any great thing: They are clothed with the King Him- 
self , Homily XLVL on John. 

|HURCHILL, CHARLES, an English poet; born 
at Westminster, in February, 1731 ; died at 
Boulogne, France, November 4, 1764. He 
was the son of a clergyman who held the lectureship 
of St. John's, Westminster. After some years spent in 
Westminster School, Churchill entered Cambridge, 
which he almost immediately quitted. He then stud- 
led for the Church, and in 1756 was ordained priest 
Two years later he succeeded his father in the curacy 
and lectureship at Westminster. Here he renewed 
his acquaintance with some of his dissipated school- 
fellows, gave himself up to extravagance and loose 
living, and narrowly escaped imprisonment in the 
Fleet. Im 1761 he published anonymously The Ros- 
ciad, a satire on the actors of the London theatres. 
It was astonishingly successful. Churchill acknowl- 
edged the authorship, and replied to criticism upon the 
poem with another satire, The Apology. His manner 
of life and neglect of duty scandalized his parishion- 
ers and drew upon him the censure of his dean. He 
at once resigned his lectureship, discarded clerical 
dress, and appeared as a man of fashion. He sepa- 
rated from his wife, and plunged into dissipation, im- 
pudently defending his excesses in a rhymed epistle 
entitled Night (1762). In the same year he published 
The Ghost, a brutal satire on Samuel Johnson and his 
associates. Churchill's intimacy with the notorious 


John Wilkes led to his writing The Prophecy of 
Famine, an attack on Scottish character, and a cruel 
satirical Epistle to the artist William Hogarth. In 
1763 appeared The Conference; The Duellists; and 
The Author; in 1764 Gotham; The Candidate; The 
Times; The Farewell^ and Independence. 


Lo Yates ! Without the least pretense of art 
He gets applause I wish he'd get his part. 
When hot impatience is in full career, 
How vilely " Hark'ee ! Hark'ee " grates the ear 
When active fancy from the brain is sent, 
And on the toptoe for some wished event, 
I hate those careless blunders which recall 
Suspended sense, and prove it fiction all. 
In characters of low and vulgar mould, 
Where nature's coarsest features we behold, 
Where destitute of every decent grace, 
Unmeasured jests are blurted in your face, 
There Yates, with justice, strict attention draws, 
And truly from himself, and gains applause. 
But when, to please himself or charm his wife, 
He aims at something of politer life 
When blindly thwarting nature's stubborn plan 
He treads the stage by way of gentleman 
The clown, who no one touch of breeding knows, 
Looks like Tom Errand dressed in Clincher's clothes ; 
Fond of his dress, fond of his person grown, 
Laughed at by all, and to himself unknown, 
From side to side he struts, he smiles, he prates, 
And seems to wonder what's become of Yates. 

The Rosciad. 


No actor ever greater heights could reach 
In all the labored artifice of speech 
Speech! Is that all? and shall an actor found 
A universal fame on partial ground? 


Parrots themselves speak properly by rote, 
And in six months my dog shall howl by note. 
I laugh at those who, when the stage they tread, 
Neglect the heart, to compliment the head; 
With strict propriety their cares confined 
To weigh out words, while passion halts behind; 
To syllable-dissectors they appeal; 
Allow their accent, cadence fools may feel; 
But, spite of all the criticising elves, 
Those who would make us feel, must feel themselves. 

The Rosciad. 


Last Garrick came Behind him throng a train 

Of snarling critics, ignorant as vain. 

One finds out "He's of stature somewhat low 

Your hero always should be tall you know 

True natural greatness all consists in height/' 

Produce your voucher, Critic. " Serjeant Kite.** 

Another can't forgive the paltry arts 

By which he makes his way to shallow hearts; 

Mere pieces of finesse, traps for applause: 

"Avaunt! unnatural start, affected pause." 

For me, by Nature form'd to judge with phlegm, 
I can't acquit by wholesale, nor condemn. 
The best things carried to excess are wrong; 
The start may be too frequent, pause too long; 
But, only used in proper time and place, 
Severest judgment must allow them grace. 

If bunglers, form'd on Imitation's plan, 
Just in the way that monkeys mimic man, 
Their copied scene with mangled arts disgrace, 
And pause and start with the same vacant face, 
We join the critic laugh; those tricks we scorn 
Which spoil the scenes they mean them to adorn ; 
But when, from Nature's pure and genuine source, 
These strokes of acting flow with generous force, 
When in the features all the soul's portray'd, 
And passions, such as Garrick's, are display'd, 
To me they seem from quickest feelings caught, 


Each start is nature, and each pause is thought. 
iWhen reason yields to passion's wild alarms, 
And the whole state of man is up in arms, 
What but a critic could condemn the player 
For pausing here, when cool sense pauses there? 
Whilst, working from the heart, the fire I trace, 
And mark it strongly flaming to the face; 
Whilst in each sound I hear the very man, 
I can't catch words, and pity those who can. 

Let wits, like spiders, from the tortured brain 
Fine-draw the critic-web with curious pain; 
The gods a kindness I with thanks must pay 
Have form'd me of a coarser kind of clay; 
Nor stung with envy, nor with spleen diseased, 
A poor dull creature, still with Nature pleased; 
Hence to thy praises, Garrick, I agree, 
And, pleased with Nature must be pleased with thee. 

The Rosciad. 


Two boys, whose birth, beyond all question, springs 
From great and glorious, though forgotten kings, 
Shepherds of Scottish lineage, born and bred 
On the same bleak and barren mountain's head, 
By niggard nature doom'd on the same rocks 
To spin out life, and starve themselves and flocks, 
Fresh as the morning, which enrobed in mist, 
The mountain's top with usual dulness kiss'd, 
Jockey and Sawney to their labors rose; 
Soon clad I ween, where nature needs no clothes ; 
Where, from their youth enured to winter skies, 
Dress and her vain refinements they despise. 

Jockey, whose manly high-boned cheeks to crown, 
With freckles spotted flamed the golden down, 
With meikle art could on the bag-pipes play, 
E'en from the rising to the setting day; 
Sawney as long without' remorse could brawl 
Home's madrigals, and ditties from Fingal. . . . 

Far as the eye could reach, no tree was seen, 


Earth, clad in russet, scorn'd the lively green: 
The plague of locusts they secure defy, 
For in three hours a grasshopper must die: 
No living thing, whate'er its food, feasts there, 
But the chameleon, who can feast on air. 
No birds, except as birds of passage, flew; 
No bee was known to hum, no dove to coo: 
No streams, as amber smooth, as amber clear, 
Were seen to glide, or heard to warble here: 
Rebellion's spring, which through the country ran, 
Furnished with bitter draughts the steady clan; 
No flowers embalm'd the air, but one white rose, 
Which, on the tenth of June, by instinct blows: 
By instinct blows at morn, and when the shades 
Of drizzly eve prevail, by instinct fades. 

One, and but one poor solitary cave, 
Too sparing of her favors, nature gave; 
That one alone '(hard tax on Scottish pride I) 
Shelter at once for man and beast supplied. 
Their snares without entangling briars spread* 
And thistles arm'd against the invader's head, 
Stood in close ranks, all entrance to oppose; 
Thistles now held more precious than the rose. 
All creatures which, on nature's earliest plan, 
Were form'd to loathe and to be loathed by man. 
Which owed their birth to nastiness and spite, 
Deadly to touch, and hateful to the sight: 
Creatures, which when admitted in the ark 
Their saviour shunn'd and rankled in the dark, 
Found place within : marking her noisome road 
With poison's trail, here crawl'd the bloated toad: 
There webs were spread of more than common size, 
And half-starved spiders prey'd on half-starved flies : 
In quest of food, efts strove in vain to crawl; 
Slugs, pinch'd with hunger, smear'd the slimy wall: 
The cave around with hissing serpents rung; 
On the damp roof unhealthy vapor hung; 
And Famine, by her children always known, 
As proud as poor, here fix'd her native throne, 

The Prophecy of Famine. 



CHURCHILL, WINSTON, an American novelist; 

born at St. Louis, Mo., November 10, 1871. 

He was graduated from the United States 
Naval Academy at Annapolis, Md., in 1894, and in 
the same year became an editor of the Army and Navy 
Journal. He then became managing editor of the 
Cosmopolitan Magazine, but resigned this post in a 
short while to devote himself to the writing of fiction. 
His first novel, The Celebrity, was published in 1898*. 
In this book he is supposed to have caricatured his 
fellow novelist, Richard Harding Davis. In 1899 he 
published Richard Carvel, which gave him widespread 
popularity, and placed him in the front rank of the 
younger American novelists. His later works include 
The Crisis (1901) ; Mr. Keegan's Elopement (1903), 
and The Crossing (1904). A reviewer in The Reader 
Magazine says of The Crossing: 


David Ritchie is a canny Scotch lad, who " may be 
young at fifty," but who is shrewd, discreet, and far- 
sighted at ten. He is as skilled in wood-lore and Indian 
strategy as Deerslayer himself, and far better versed in 
state-craft. His luck will make an average boy tingle with 
envy. Daniel Boone teaches him how to skin a deer, and 
Andy Jackson, " a lanky, red-headed, bare- footed boy, with 
a long face under his tousled hair and a fluent use of pro- 
fanity," fights him to a finish. That same summer Dav) 
watches Moultrie defend Charleston and helps put dowi 
a servile insurrection. Next he stays over night with Cap 
tain Jack Sevier, crosses the wilderness trail into " park 
like " Kentucky, endures a year of siege at Harrodstown 
and is a drummer boy when George Rogers Clark, " th 
servant of destiny," over-runs and annexes Illinois an< 


Indiana. David is swept along by the rushing of great 
events. Once the current slackens when the phlegmatic 
young lawyer hangs out his shingle in the village of 
Louisville. But there is no backwater for so useful a 
person. He is quickly caught up in the winning of the 
Louisiana Territory, and the tragic end of Mrs. Temple, 
the love-making of David and Helene, of Nick Temple 
and Antoinette, the escapes and intrigues supply the es- 
sential human interest. 

On the surface of serious affairs there floats the pic- 
turesque details of frontier life; the hardy pioneer babies 
slung to the horses 7 packs in hickory withes, the paper 
window panes smeared with bears' grease that let in a 
yellow light, the linen spun from nettle bark, the dresses 
of calamanco, the rude walnut furniture, and the rattle 
snakes, buffalo,, paroquets, salt licks, giant bones, great 
falls, of the now prosaic Kentucky. At the opposite 
scale of existence are the Carolina manors, Louisiana 
plantations and town mansions inhabited by the noble 
French emigres and English ducal sons, in powder, 
patches and velvets. Forgotten episodes like the State 
of Franklin, and the projected secession of Kentucky; 
dramatic scenes in Cahokia and Vincennes, the great 
council and the days of siege, march and battle; pen pic- 
tures of the infant St. Louis, and the 'effete New Orleans ; 
sweeping views of virgin scenery in Tennessee and Ken- 
tucky, will reveal to many readers an abysmal ignorance 
of which they had not known. 

The Crossing is a continental panorama, the game for 
an empire, and withal a fine tale of love and adventure. 


The great genius and courage of John Paul Jones entitle 
him to a high place among American heroes. He made 
the United States navy a terror to the world, even though 
there was but a handful of ships in it He had a great 
affection for the institutions of this country, but still he 
was the most un-American of our heroes. 

I think men of achievement may be classed as belong- 
ing either to the Napoleonic or the Lincolnian types of 


greatness. John Paul Jones belonged in. the former class. 
There is no doubt of his great genius as a sea fighter, but 
he was an adventurer. It was this spirit that led him, 
when this country had no further honors and emoluments 
for him, to go to Russia. 

His career was unlike that of a great majority of the 
careers of Americans and Englishmen. His was more 
meteoric. He was a man who wanted to be making a 
stir in the world. His was a character that demanded a 
quick fruition of his work. 

Let me explain how I would distinguish his career from 
that of other American heroes. In this country and in 
England those who become men of achievement are com- 
monly forced out of certain smaller communities slowly 
until they are needed and are ever afterward available 
for the service of the State. John Paul Jones rose to a 
great height by his genius. He was distinctly of the 
Napoleonic type, not at all, for instance, of the type of 
Wellington. But he was a great American hero, and is 
entitled to the highest place for his courage and genius. 
From the New York Herald. 

JIBBER, COLLEY, an English actor and dram- 
atist; born at London, November 6, 1671; 
died there, December 12, 1757.* His father, 
Caius Gabriel Gibber, acquired a large fortune as a 
carver in wood and stone. The son, having received 
a good education, became infatuated with the stage 
and joined a company of actors. In 1711 he became 
one of the patentees and manager of Drury Lane 
Theatre. About 1731 he was named laureate, and 
formally retired from the theatre, though he occasion- 
ally appeared upon the stage, the last time being in 
1745, when, at the age of seventy-four, he enacted the 


art of Panulph in a drama of his own entitled Papal 
^yranny. Gibber wrote several comedies, the best of 
Tvhich are Love's Last Shift and The Careless Hus- 
iand. When verging upon threescore and ten he put 
forth the Apology for My Life,, which presents a curi- 
ous picture of the manners of the day, and has been 
several times reprinted. The version of Shakespeare ? s 
Richard the Third which kept possession of the stage 
for at least a century was the production of Colley 
Gibber. He is best known, after all, by the mention 
made of him by Pope in The Dunciad, and by John- 
son, as recorded by Boswell; and by a single short 
poem. The place of Gibber's interment has been a 
subject of considerable controversy. Dr. Doran, in 
his Annals of the Stage, says that he (t was carried to 
sleep with kings and queens in Westminster Abbey;" 
but Lawrence Hutton says that here the Doctor is not 
to be relied on, for that "Gibber certainly was not 
buried in the Abbey." In proof of this contention, 
Hutton quotes as follows from a private letter received 
in 1883 from the vicar of the parish of St. Paul: 
" Colley Gibber and his father and mother were buried 
in the vault of the old Danish church. When the 
church was removed, the coffins were all removed 
carefully into the crypt under the apse, and then 
bricked up. So the bodies are still there. The Dan- 
ish consul was with me when I moved the bodies. The 
coffins had perished except the bottoms. I care- 
fully removed them myself personally, and laid 
them side by side at the back of the crypt, and covered 
them with earth." The Danish church here mentioned 
stood in Wellclose Square, in what is now St. George 
Street. It was built in 1696, by Gibber's father, by 
order of the King of Denmark, for the use of 


of his subjects as might visit London. It was taken 
down in 1868, and upon its foundations were built 
Saint Paul's Schools. 

Gibber was a lively and amusing writer. His Care- 
less Husband is still deservedly a favorite; and his 
Apology for My Life is one of the most entertaining 
autobiographies in the. English language 


The unskillful openness, or, in plain terms, the indis- 
cretion I have always acted with from my youth, has 
drawn more ill-will towards me, than men of worse 
morals and more wit might have met with. My igno- 
rance and want of jealousy of mankind has been so strong, 
that it is with reluctance I even^et believe any person I 
am acquainted with can be capable of envy, malice, or in- 
gratitude. And to show you what a mortification it was 
to me, in my very boyish days, to find myself mistaken, 
give me leave to tell you a school story. A great boy, 
near the head taller than myself, in some wrangle at play 
had insulted me ; upon which I was foolhardy enough to 
give him a box on the ear. The blow was soon returned 
with another; that brought me under him, and at his 
mercy. Another lad, whom I really loved, and thought 
a good-natured one, cried out with some warmth to my 
antagonist, while I was down: "Beat him! beat him 
soundly ! " This so amazed me, that I lost all my spirits 
to resist, and burst into tears. When the fray was over, 
I took my friend aside and asked him how he came to 
be so earnestly against me ; to which, with some gloating 
confusion, he replied: "Because you are always jeering 
and making a jest of me to every boy in the school." 
Many a mischief have I brought upon myself by the same 
folly in riper life. Whatever reason I had to reproach 
my -companion declaring against me, I had none to won- 
der at it, while I was so often hurting him. Thus I 
deserved his enmity by my not having sense enough to 
know I had hurt him; and he hated me because he had 


not sense enough to know that I never intended to hurt 
him. From The Apology. 

Let me give you another instance of my discretion, 
more desperate than that of preferring the stage to any 
other views of life. One might think that the madness 
of breaking from the advice and care of parents, to turn 
Player, could not easily be exceeded. But what think 
you, sir, of Matrimony?, which, before I was two-and- 
twenty, I actually committed, when I had but twenty 
pounds a year, which my father had assured to me, and 
twenty shillings a week from my theatrical labors, to 
maintain, as I then thought, the happiest young couple 
that ever took a leap in the dark 1 If, after this, to com- 
plete my fortune, I turned Poet too, this last folly, indeed, 
had something a better excuse necessity. Had it never 
been my lot to have come on the stage, 'tis probable I 
might never have been inclined, or reduced, to have wrote 
for it; but having once exposed my person there, I 
thought it could be no additional dishonor to let my parts, 
whatever they were, take their fortune along with it 
From the Apology. 


Oh, say what is that they call the light, 

Which I must ne'er enjoy? 
What are the blessings of the sight? 

Oh, tell your poor blind boy. 

You talk of wondrous things you see; 

You say the sun shines bright; 
I feel him warm, but how can he 

Or make it day or night? 

My day or night myself T make, 

Whene'er I sleep or 4ay; 
And could I ever ker > awake, 

With me 'twere always day. 


With heavy sighs I often hear 
You mourn my hapless woe; 

Yet sure with patience I can bear 
A loss I ne'er can know. 

Then let not what I cannot have 
My cheer of mind destroy. 

Whilst thus I sing, I am a king, 
Although a poor blind boy. 

CICERO, MARCUS TULLIUS, a Roman statesman, 
orator and philosopher; born at Arpinum, 
Italy, January 3, 106 B.C.; died near For- 
mise, Italy, December 7, 43 B.C. He belonged to 
a wealthy family and was carefully educated, es- 
pecially in Greek literature and philosophy. At the 
age of twenty-five he entered upon his public career 
as a pleader in the Forum, and before he had reached 
middle life he was acknowledged to be by far the 
greatest of Roman orators. To narrate the public 
life of Cicero would be in effect to write the history 
of Roman politics for more than thirty eventful years. 
He passed as rapidly as his age would permit, through 
the various grades of public service, becoming consul 
at the age of forty-three. His consulship was es- 
pecially notable for the frustration of the conspiracy 
organized by Catiline ; and for the part which he bore 
in this, Cicero was hailed as the " Father of his Coun- 
try " and the " Saviour of Rome." 

The ensuing twelve years of the life of Cicero were 
passed partly in the exercise of various public func- 



tions, partly in the composition of several of his phi- 
losophical treatises. At the close of 50 B.C. Rome 
was on the verge of a civil war between the parties 
headed by Caesar and Pompey. Cicero endeavored to 
mediate between the parties; but when Caesar took 
the decisive step of crossing the Rubicon, Cicero for- 
mally joined the party of Pompey. Caesar, in 48 B.C., 
gained the supremacy by his decisive victory at Phar- 
salia e Cicero submitted himself to the victor, from 
whom he received the utmost clemency and respect 
During the ensuing four years Cicero took no promi- 
nent part in public affairs, but devoted himself to lit- 
erature, writing the greater part of his philosophical 
works. He had no share in the assassination of 
Caesar (44 B.C.), though after the deed was done he 
applauded it as a wise and patriotic act. When the 
ambitious designs of Mark Antony began to manifest 
themselves, Cicero set himself in decided opposition, 
and delivered the fourteen orations styled Philippics 
against him. For a time it seemed that Cicero would 
be successful But reverses came. Octavius, Mark 
Antony, and Lepidus formed a coalition, known as 
" the Second Triumvirate," and gained supreme power 
in the state. Cicero fled from Rome to his villa at 
Formic. Mark Antony demanded the head of Cicero. 
Octavius and Lepidus yielded to the demand, and 
Cicero was put to death at the door of his villa by 
the bravos of Mark Antony, near the close of the 
year 43 B.C. He had just reached the age of sixty- 
three. His head and hands were cut off and sent to 
Rome, where they were exposed to many indignities 
by order of Mark Antony. 

Cicero was one of the most voluminous of authors, 


Of the works which he is known to have written 
some of them of large size many are no longer 
extant. But those which we have in a fair state of 
preservation comprise several goodly volumes. The 
latest, and probably the best, edition is that of Orelius 
(Zurich, 1826-38), in twelve large octavo volumes; 
in which, however, much space is taken up by critical 
apparatus of various kinds. The extant works of 
Cicero may be classed in several groups: I. Ora- 
tions, of which we have about fifty. 2. Literary and 
Philosophical Treatises; the principal of which are: 
De Republica, De Legibus, De Oratore, De Finibus, 
De Senectute, De Claris Oratoribus, De Natura De~ 
orum, De Amicitia, Tusculanarnm Disputationum, De 
Divinatione, and De Officiis. 3. Epistles, of which 
several hundreds are extant. These Epistles are per- 
haps the most really valuable of all his works ; they 
give an account of his life almost from day to day, 
and furnish also graphic sketches of not a few of the 
leading personages of the time. They stand almost 
unique among the remains of antiquity, and have hard- 
ly an equal in modern times. There are indeed few 
men of historical note of whom we know so much 
as we may learn of Cicero from these Epistles. Near- 
ly all of the extant works of Cicero have been well 
rendered into English by various translators, 


But since, Conscript Fathers, the gift of glory is 
conferred on these most excellent and gallant citizens 
by the honor of a monument, let us comfort their rela- 
tions, to whom indeed this is the best consolation. The 
greatest comfort for their parents is that they have 
produced sons who have been such bulwarks of the re- 


public; for their children that they will have such 
examples of virtue in their family; for their wives, that 
the husbands whom they have lost are men whom it is a 
credit to praise, and to have a right to mourn for; and for 
their brothers, that they may trust that, as they resemble 
them in their persons, so they do also in their virtues. 
Would that we were able by the expression of our senti- 
ments and by our votes to wipe away the tears of all these 
persons, or that any such oration as this could be pub- 
licly addressed to them, ito cause them to lay aside their 
grief and mourning, and to rejoice rather, that, while 
many various kinds of death impend over men, the most 
honorable kind of all has fallen to the lot of their friends ; 
and that they are not unburied nor deserted; though even 
that fate, when incurred for one's country, is not ac- 
counted miserable; nor buried with equable obsequies in 
scattered graves, but entombed in honorable sepulchres, 
and honored with public offerings; and with a building 
which will be an altar of their valor to insure the recol- 
lection of eternal ages. Wherefore it will be the greatest 
possible comfort to their relations, that by the same mon- 
ument are clearly displayed the valor of their kinsmen, 
and also their piety, and the good faith of the Senate, 
and the memory of this most inhuman war, in which, if 
the valor of the soldier had been conspicuous, the very 
name of the Roman people would have perished by the 
parricidal treason of Marcus Antonius. 

And I think also,' O Conscript Fathers, that those re- 
wards which we promised to bestow on the soldiers when 
we had recovered the republic, we should give with 
abundant usury to those who are alive and victorious 
when the time comes; and that in the case of the men 
to whom those rewards were promised, but who died in 
the defence of their country, I think those same rewards 
should be given to their parents or children, or wives or 
brothers. Fourteenth Philippic. 


That magnanimity that is discovered in being exposed 
to toil and danger, if not founded on justice, and directed 


to public good, but influenced by self-interest, is blatn- 
able. For so far from being a character of virtue, it 
indicates a barbarity, that is destructive of humanity 
itself. The Stoics, therefore, define fortitude rightly, 
when they call it " virtue fighting on the side of justice." 
No man, therefore, who has acquired the reputation of 
fortitude, ever attains to glory by deceit and malice; 
for nothing that is unjust can be virtuous. 

It is therefore finely said by Plato, that as the knowl- 
edge that is divested of justice deserves the appellation 
of cunning, rather than wisdom, so a mind unsusceptible 
of fear, if animated by private interest, and not public 
utility, deserves the character of audaciousness, rather 
than of fortitude. We therefore require that all men 
of courage and magnanimity should be, at the same 
time, men of virtue and of simplicity, lovers of truth, 
and enemies to all deceit: for these are the main charac- 
ters of justice. . . . 

They, therefore, who oppose, not they who commit in- 
justice, are to be deemed brave and magnanimous. Now 
genuine and well conducted magnanimity judges that 
the honestum, which is nature's chief aim, consists in 
realities, and not in appearances; and rather chooses to 
have, than to seem to have a superiority in merit For 
the man who is swayed by the prejudices of an ignorant 
rabble, is not to be rated in the ranks of the great But 
the man of a spirit the most elevated and the most am- 
bitious of glory, is the most easily pushed on to acts of 
injustice. This is a ticklish and a slippery situation; for 
scarcely can there be found a man, who after enduring 
toils, and encountering dangers, does not pant for popu- 
larity, as the reward of his exploits. 

It is certain that a brave and an elevated spirit is chief- 
ly discernible by two characters. The first consists in 
despising the outside of things, from this conviction 
within itself, that a man ought to a'dmire, desire, or 
court nothing but what is virtuous and becoming; and 
that he ought to sink under no human might, nor yield 
to any disorder, either of spirit or fortune. The other 
character of magnanimity is, that possessed of such a 


spirit as I have pointed out, you enter upon some un- 
dertaking, not only of great importance in itself, and 
of great utility to the public, but extremely arduous, 
full of difficulties, and dangerous both to life and 
many of its concomitants. In the latter of those two 
characters consist glory, majesty, and, let me add, 
utility; but the causes and the efficient means that 
form great men is in the former, which contains the 
principles that elevate the soul, gives it a contempt for 
temporary considerations. Now this very excellence 
consists in two particulars; you are to deem that only 
to be good that is virtuous; and you must be free from 
all mental disorder. For we are to look upon it as the 
character of a noble and an elevated soul to slight all 
those considerations that the generality of mankind ac- 
count great and glorious, and to despise them, upon firm 
and durable principles ; while strength of mind and great- 
ness of resolution is discerned, in bearing those calami- 
ties, which, in the course of man's life, are many and 
various, so as not to be driven from your natural dis- 
position, nor from the character of a wise man. For 
there is great inconsistency in a man, if after being 
proof against fear, he should yield to passion ; or if, after 
surmounting toil, he should be subdued by pleasure* It 
ought, therefore, to be a main consideration with us to 
avoid the love of money; for nothing so truly character- 
izes a narrow, grovelling disposition as avarice does; 
and nothing is more noble and more exalted than to de- 
spise riches, if you have them not, and if you have them, 
to employ them in virtuous and generous purposes. An 
inordinate passion for glory is likewise to be guarded 
against; for it deprives us of liberty, the only prize for 
which men of elevated sentiments ought to contend. 
Power is so far from being desirable in itself, that it 
sometime sought to be refused, nay, resigned. We 
should likewise be free from all disorders of the mind, 
from all violent passion and fear, as well as languor, 
voluptuousness, and anger, that we may possess that 
tranquillity and security which are attended with both uni- 
formity and dignity. De 



Away, then, with those follies which are little better 
than the old women's dreams, such as that it is miser- 
able to die before our time. What time do you mean? 
That of nature? But she has only lent you life, as she 
might lend you money, without fixing any certain time 
for its repayment. Have you any grounds of com- 
plaint, then, that she recalls it at her pleasure? for you 
received it on these terms. They that complain thus 
allow that if a young child dies the survivors ought to 
bear his loss with equanimity; that if an infant in the 
cradle dies they ought not even to utter a complaint; 
and yet nature has been more severe with them in de- 
manding back what she gave. They answer by saying 
tnat such have not tasted the sweets of life; while the 
other had begun to conceive hopes of great happiness, 
and indeed had begun to realize them. Men judge bet- 
ter in other things, and allow a part to be preferable to 
none; why do they not admit the same estimate in life? 
Though Callimachus does not speak amiss in saying 
that more tears had flowed from Priam than from his 
son; yet they are thought happier who die after they 
have reached old age. It would be hard to say why; 
for I do not apprehend that any one, if a longer life 
were granted him, would find it happier. There is noth- 
ing more agreeable to a man than prudence, which old 
age most certainly bestows on a man, though it may strip 
him of everything else; but what age is long? or what is 
there at all long to a man? Does not 

Old age, though unregarded, still attend 
On childhood's pastimes, as the cares of men ? 

But because there is nothing beyond old age, we call 
that long; all these things are said to be long or short, 
according to the proportion of time they were given us 
for. Aristotle saith, there is a kind of insect near the 
river Hypanis, which runs from a certain part of Europe 
into the Pontus, whose life consists but of one day; those 


that die at the eighth hour, die in full age; those who 
die when the sun sets are very old, especially when the 
days are at the longest. Compare our longest life with 
eternity and we shall be found almost as short-lived as 
those little animals. 

Let us, then, despise all these follies for what softer 
name can I give to such levities ? and let us lay the 
foundation of our happiness in the strength and great- 
ness of our minds, in a contempt and disregard of all 
earthly things, and in the practice of every virtue. For 
at present we are enervated by the softness of our im- 
aginations, so that, should we leave this world before 
the promises of our fortune-tellers are made good to 
us, we should think ourselves deprived of some great 
advantages, and seem disappointed and forlorn. But if, 
through life, we are in continual suspense, still expect- 
ing, still desiring, and are in continual pain and torture, 
good Gods! how pleasant must that journey be which 
ends in security and ease! 

How pleased am I with Theramenes! of how exalted 
a soul does he appear! For although we never read of 
him without tears, yet that illustrious man is not to be 
lamented in his death, who, when he had been impris- 
oned by the command of the thirty tyrants, drank off, 
at one draught, as if he had been thirsty, the poisoned 
cup, and threw the remainder out of it with such force, 
that it sounded as it fell; and then, on hearing the sound 
of the drops, he said, with a smile, " I drink this to the 
most excellent Critias," who had been his most bitter 
enemy; for it is customary among the Greeks, at their 
banquets, to name the person to whom they intend to 
deliver the cup. This celebrated man was pleasant to 
the last, even when he had received the poison into his 
bowels, and truly foretold the death of that man whom 
he named when he drank the poison, and that death 
soon followed. Who that thinks death an evil could 
approve of the evenness of temper in this great man at 
the instant of dying? 

Socrates came, a few years after, to the same prison 
and the same cup, by as great iniquity on the part of his 


judges as the tyrants displayed when they executed 
Theramenes. What a speech is that which Plato makes 
him deliver before his judges, after they had condemned 
him to death! . . . There is no part of his speech 
which I admire more than his last words ; " But it is 
time," says he, " for me now to go hence, that I may die ; 
and for you that you may continue to live. Which con- 
dition of the two is the best, the immortal Gods know; 
but I do not believe that any mortal man does." Surely 
I would rather have had this man's soul, than all the for- 
tunes of those who sat in judgment on hini; although 
that very thing which he says no one except the Gods 
know, namely, whether life or death is most preferable, 
he knows himself, for he had previously stated his. opin- 
ion on it; but he maintained to the last that favorite 
maxim of his, of affirming nothing. And let us, too, 
adhere to this rule of not thinking anything an evi^ which 
is a general provision of nature: and le;t us assure our- 
selves, that if death is an evil, it is an eternal evil, for 
death seems to be the end of a miserable life; but if 
death is a misery, there can be no end of that. Tuscylan 


Various are the causes of men omitting, or forsaking, 
their duty. They may be unwilling to encounter enmity, 
toil or expense, or perhaps they do it through negli- 
gence, listlessness, or laziness; or they are so embar- 
rassed in certain studies and pursuits, that they suffer 
those, they ought to protect, to be abandoned. This leads 
me to doubt somewhat of the justness of Plato's compli- 
ment to philosophers : " That they are men of integrity, 
because they aim only at truth, and despise and neglect 
those considerations which others value, and which gen- 
erally set mankind at variance among themselves.*' For 
while they abstain from doing injury to others, they 
Indeed assert one species of honesty or f * justice," but 
they fail in another; because they are so entangled in 
the pursuits of learning, that they abandon those they 
ought to protect Some therefore think that they would 


have no concern with the government, unless they were 
forced to it; but still, it would be more commendable, if 
they were to undertake it voluntarily. For even this, 
though a right thing in itself, is commendable only when 
it is voluntary. There are others who either from a 
desire to improve their private fortune, or from some 
personal resentments, pretend that they mind their own 
affairs, only that they may appear not to wrong their 
neighbors. Now such persons in avoiding one kind of 
dishonesty strike upon another; because they abandon 
the fellowship of life by employing in it none of their 
zeal, none of their labor, none of their abilities. Having 
thus stated the two kinds of dishonesty or injustice, and 
assigned the motives for each kind, and settled previously 
the proper requisites of honesty or justice, we may easily 
(unless we are extremely selfish) form a judgment of our 
duty on every occasion. 

For, to concern ourselves in other people's affairs is a 
delicate matter. Yet Chremes, a character in Terrence, 
thinks, that there is nothing that can befall mankind in 
which he does not thing he has a concern. Meanwhile, 
because we have the quicker perception and sensation of 
whatever happens unfavorably or untowardly to our- 
selves, than to others, which we see as it were at a greater 
distance, the judgment we form of them is very different 
from what we form of ourselves. It is therefore a right 
maxim, to do nothing when you are doubtful whether it 
is honest or unjust; for whatever is honest is self-evident, 
but doubt implies suspicion of injustice. 

I must put you in mind that justice is due even to 
the lowest of mankind; and nothing can be lower than 
the condition and the fortune of a slave. And yet it is 
no unreasonable rule to put them upon the same foot- 
ing as hired laborers, oblige them to do their work, 
but to give them their dues. Now, as injustice may be 
done two ways, by force or fraud; fraud is the property 
of a fox, force of a lion; both are utterly repugnant to 
society, but fraud is the most detestable. But in the 
whole system of villainy, the capital villain is he wko in 

VOL. V. 30 


practising the greatest crimes, deceives under the mask 
of virtue. 

Having thus treated of justice, let me now, as I pro- 
posed, speak of beneficence and liberality, virtues that 
are the most agreeable to the nature of man, but they 
are to be practised with great circumspection. For, in 
the first place, we are to take care lest our kindness 
should hurt both those whom it is meant to assist, and 
others. In the next place, it ought not to exceed our 
abilities; and it ought to be adapted to the deserts of 
the object. This is the fundamental of justice to which 
all I say here is to refer. For they who do kindnesses 
which prove of disservice to the person they pretend to 
oblige, are neither beneficent nor generous, but execrable 
sycophants. And they who injure one party in order to 
be liberal to another, are guilty of the same dishonesty, 
as if they should appropriate to themselves what belongs 
to another. 

Now many, and they especially who are the most 
ambitious after grandeur and glory, rob one party to 
enrich another; and account themselves generous to their 
friends if they enrich them at any rate. This is so far 
from being consistent with, that nothing can be more 
contrary to, our duty. Let us, therefore, still practise 
that kind of generosity that is serviceable to our friends, 
but hurtful to none. Upon this principle, when Lucius 
Sulla and Caius Caesar took property from its just own- 
ers, and transferred it to others, in so doing they ought 
not to be accounted generous; for nothing can be gener- 
ous that is not just. 

Our next part of circumspection is that our generosity 
never should exceed our abilities. For they who are 
more generous than their circumstances admit of, are 
guilty of a capital error, by wronging their relations; 
because they bestow upon strangers those means which 
they might, with greater justice, give, or lease, to their 
relations. Now a generosity of this kind is generally 
attended with a lust to ravish and to plunder, in order 
to be furnished with the means to give away. For it is 
easy to observe, that most of them are not so much by 


nature generous, as they are misled by a kind of pride 
to do a great many things to get themselves the charac- 
ter of being generous, and this kind of generosity is not 
so much the effect of principle as of ostentation. Now 
such a disguise of disposition is more nearly allied to 
vanity than to generosity or virtue. 

The third head of circumspection I proposed to treat 
of, was, that in our generosity we should have regard to 
merit; and consequently examine both the morals of the 
party to whom we are generous, and his disposition 
toward us, together with the general good of society, and 
how far he may have already contributed to our own 
utility. Could all those considerations be united, it were 
the more desirable, but the objects in whom is united, the 
most numerous, and the most important of them, ought 
with us to have the preference. De Officiis. 


You must know that at present I want nothing so 
much as a certain friend, to whom I can impart what- 
ever gives me concern; the man who loves me, who is 
wise in himself, the man with whom I converse without 
guile, without dissimulation, without reserve. For my 
brother is absent, who is the very soul of sincerity and 
affection for me. As to Metellus, he is as devoid of 
these sociable qualities as the sounding shore, the empty 
air, or the uncivilized waste. But thou, my friend, where 
art thou, who hast so often reasoned and talked away 
my cares, and the anguish of my mind; thou partner 
of my public, thou witness of my private concerns ; thou 
partaker of all my conversation, thou associate in all 
my counsels, where, I say, art thou? So forsaken, so 
forlorn am I, that my life knows no comfort, but what it 
has in the company of my wife, my charming daughter, 
and my dear little Cicero; for our interested, varnished 
friendships, serve indeed to make a kind of figure in the 
forum, but they are without domestic endearment. Thus, 
in the' morning, when my house is filled, when I proceed 
to the forum surrounded with hordes of friends, I cannot, 
in all that mighty confluence, find a person to whom I can 


indulge my humor with freedom, or whisper my corn-- 
plaints in confidence. I therefore expect you, I want you, 
nay I summon you to my relief; for many are my per- 
plexities, many are my troubles, which, did I once enjoy 
your attention, I think I could dissipate in the conversa- 
tion of one familiar walk. But I shall here conceal from 
you all the agonies which I suffer in my private affairs; 
nor will I trust them to a letter, which is to be conveyed 
by a bearer unknown to me. Yet the stings which I 
endure, for I would not have you to be too much alarmed, 
are not intolerable. My anxieties, indeed, haunt and 
tease me, and can be allayed only by the counsels and 
conversation of the friend I love. . 

As to public affairs, though they lie at my heart, yet 
my inclination to offer them any remedy daily dimin- 
ishes. For if I were to give you a brief statement of 
what happened after your departure, I think I should 
hear you cry out that the Roman government could be 
of no long continuance. For the first public act in 
which I engaged after your departure was, if I mistake 
not, the tragical intrigue of Clodius. Here I imagined 
that I had a fair field for restraining licentiousness, and 
for bridling our young men; and indeed I was warm, 
and poured forth all my strength and fire of genius, 
not from any particular spite, but from a sincere desire 
to serve my country, and to heal her constitution, which 
had been wounded by a mercenary, prostituted judg- 
ment. Now you shall hear what followed upon this. 

We had a consul forced upon us, and such a consul as 
none but philosophers like us can behold without a sigh. 
What a calamity was this? The Senate had passed a 
decree concerning corruption in elections and trials. This 
decree never passed into a law; the Senate was con- 
founded, the Roman Knights were disobliged. Thus did 
one year overthrow the two barriers of the government 
which I had erected by taking authority from the Senate, 
and breaking the union of our orders. . . . One 
Herennius, whom you, perhaps, know nothing of, is a 
tribune of the people; but you may know him, for he is 
of your tribe, and his father Sextus used to be the pay- 


master of your election money. This man has transferred 
Clodius to the commons ; and prevailed with all the tribes 
of the people to pass a vote in the Campus Martius con- 
cerning his adopted son. I gave him a proper reception, 
as usual, but the fellow is incorrigibly stupid. Metellus 
proves an excellent consul, and my very good friend; but 
he hurts his authority, because he has suffered the for- 
mality of the peoples assembling in tribes to pass. As 
to the son of Aulus, good God! what a dunce, what a 
spiritless creature he is, and how deserving is he of the 
abuse which Palicanus every day pours out against him 
to his face. Flavius has promoted an Agrarian law, in 
which there is, indeed, no great matter, and is much the 
same with that of Plotius. But in the meantime, not 
a man can be found who pays the slightest attention to 
the interests of the republic. Our friend Pornpey (for 
I would have you to know that he is my friend) preserves, 
by his silence, the honors of the triumphal robe, which he 
is permitted to wear at the public shows. Crassus would 
not, for the world, speak anything to disoblige. I need 
to say no more of all the others, who could see their 
country sunk if their fish-ponds are safe. One patriot, 
indeed, we have, but in my opinion, he is patriotic more 
from courage and integrity, than from judgment or 
genius, I mean Cato. He has for these three months 
plagued the poor farmers of the revenue, though they 
have been his very good friends; nor will he suffer the 
Senate to return any answer to their petition. Thus, 
we are forced to do no kind of business, before that of 
the revenue is dispatched, and I believe even the depu- 
tations will be set aside. You see what storms we en- 
counter, and from what I have written, you may form 
a clear judgment of what I have omitted. Pray think 
upon returning hither; and though it is, indeed, a disa- 
greeable place, let your affection for me prevail so far 
upon you, as to bear witti it, with all its inconveniences. 
I will take all possible care to prevent the censors from 
registering you before your return. But to delay your 
return to the very last moment, will betray too much of 


the minute calculator; therefore I beg that you will let 
me see you as soon as possible. Epistle to Atticus. 

IN EXILE, 58 B.C. 

I have learnt from your letters all that passed till the 
25th of May. I waited for accounts of what has hap- 
pened since that time, by your advice, at Thessalonica. 
When I have received them, I shall the more easily de- 
termine where I am to reside. For if there is occasion, 
if anything is in hand, if I have any encouragement, I 
either will remain here, or I will repair to you. But if 
as you inform me, there are but small hopes of such 
incidents, then must I determine on some other course. 
Hitherto you have hinted nothing to me but the divi- 
sions that prevail among my enemies ; but those divisions 
spring from other matters than my concerns; I cannot, 
therefore, see how they can be of advantage to me. I 
will, however, humor you as to every circumstance, from 
which you desire me to hope for the best. As to the 
frequent and severe reproofs you throw out against my 
want of fortitude, let me ask you whether there is* an 
evil which is not included in my misfortunes? Did ever 
man fall from so elevated a station, in so good a cause, 
with such advantages of genius, experience, and popu- 
larity, or so guarded by the interest of every worthy 
patriot? Is it possible I should forget who I have been; 
that I should not feel who I am ; what glory, what honor, 
what children, what fortunes, and what a brother I 
have lost? A brother, that you may know my calamities 
to be unexampled, whom I loved, whom I have ever 
loved more than myself; yet have I been forced to avoid 
the sight of this very brother, lest I should either behold 
his sorrow and dejection, or present myself a wretch 
undone and lost, to him who had left me in high and 
flourishing circumstances. I omit my other intolerable 
reflections that still remain ; for I am stopped by my tears, 
Tell me am I most to blame for giving vent to such 
sorrows, or for surviving my happy state, or for not 
still possessing it, which I easily might have done, had 
not the plan of my destruction been laid within my own 


walls. I write this that you may rather administer your 
wonted condolence than expose me as deserving of cen- 
sure and correction. I write but a short letter to you 
because I am prevented by my tears; and the news I 
expect from Rome is of more importance to me than 
anything I can write of myself. Whenever anything 
comes to my knowledge, I will inform you exactly of 
my resolution. I beg you will continue to inform me 
so particularly of everything, that I may be ignorant of 
nothing that passes. Epistle to Atticus, 


Is it really so? Has all that has been done by our 
common Brutus, come to this, that he should live at 
Sanuvium, and Trebonius repair by devious marches 
to his government? That all the actions, writings, words, 
promises and purposes of Caesar should carry with them 
more force than they would have done, had he been 
alive? You may remember what loud remonstrances I 
made the very first day we met in the capitol, that the 
Senate should be summoned thither by the praetors. Im- 
mortal gods! What might we not have then carried 
amidst the universal joy of our patriots, and even our 
half-patriots, and the general rout of those robbers. You 
.disapprove of what was done on the i8th of March, 
but what could be done? We were undone before that 
day. Do not you remember you called out that our cause 
was ruined, if Caesar had a public funeral? But a funeral 
he had, and that too in the Forum, and graced with 
pathetic encomiums, which encouraged slaves and beg- 
gars, with flaming torches in their hands, to burn our 
houses. What followed? Were they not insolent enough 
to say " Caesar issued the command, and you must obey? 
I cannot bear these and other things. I therefore think 
of retiring, and leaving behind me country after country ; 
and even your favorite Greece is too much exposed to 
the political storm to continue in it 

Meanwhile, has your complaint quite left you? *or 1 
have some reason to believe, by your manner of writing, 
that it has But I return to the Thebassi, the Scsevae, 


and the Frangones. Do you imagine that they will think 
themselves secure in their possessions, while we stand 
our ground; and experience has taught them that we 
have not in us the courage which they imagined. Are we 
to look upon those to be the friends of peace, who have 
been the fomenters of rebellion? What I wrote to you 
concerning Curtilius, and the estates of Sestilius, I ap- 
ply to Censorinus, . Messala, Planca, Posthumius, and the 
whole clan. It would have been better to perish with 
the slain than to have lived to witness things like these. 
Octavius came to Naples about the i6th, where Balbus 
waited upon him next morning, and from thence he 
came to me at Cumse, the same day, where he acquainted 
me that he would accept of the succession to his uncle's 
estate. But this, as you observe, may be the source of 
a warm dispute between him and Anthony. I shall be- 
stow all due attention and pains upon your affair at 
Burthrotum. You ask me whether the legacy left me 
by Cluvius will amount to a hundred thousand sesterces 
a year. It will amount pretty near it, but this first year 
I have laid out eighty thousand upon repairs. My brother 
complains greatly of his son, who, he says, is now ex- 
cessively complaisant to his mother, though he hated her 
at a time when she deserved his respects. He has sent 
me flaming letters against him. If you have not yet 
left Rome, and if you know what he is doing, I beg you 
will inform me by a letter, as indeed, you must do of 
everything else, for your letters give me the greatest 
pleasure. Epistle -to Atticus. 


I fear, my Atticus, that all we have reaped from the 
Ides of March is but the short-lived joy of having pun- 
ished him whom we have hated as the author of our 
sufferings. What news do I hear from Rome! What 
management do I see here ! It was, indeed, a glorious 
action, but it was left imperfect. You know how much 
I love the Sicilians, and how much I thought myself 
honored in being their patron. Caesar (and- 1 was glad 
of it) did them many favors, though granting them the 


privileges of Latium was more than could be well borne. 
However I said nothing even to that But here comes 
Antony, who, for a large sum of money, produces a law 
passed by the dictator in an assembly of the people, 
by which all Sicilians are made denizens of Rome, an 
act never once heard of in the dictator's lifetime. Is not 
the case of our friend Deiotarus almost the same? There 
is no throne which he does not deserve, but not through 
the interest of Fulvia. I could give you a thousand such 
instances. Thus far, however, your purpose may be 
served. Your affair of Buthrotum is so clear, so well 
attested, and so just, that it is impossible for you to 
fail in obtaining part of your claim, and, the rather, 
as Antony has succeeded in many things of the same 

Octavius lives here with me, upon a very honorable and 
friendly footing. His own domestics call him by the 
name of Caesar; but his stepfather Philip does not, 
neither do I, for that reason. I deny that he can be a 
good citizen; he is surrounded by so many that breathe 
destruction to our friends, and who swear vengeance 
against what they have done. What in your opinion 
will be the consequence when the boy shall go to Rome, 
where our deliverers cannot live in safety? It is true, 
they must be glorious, and even happy, from the con- 
sciousness of what they have done. But we, who are 
delivered, if I mistake not, must still remain in a state 
of despicable servitude. I therefore long to go where 
the news of such deeds can never reach my ears. I hate 
even those appointed consuls, who have forced me so to 
declaim, that even Baise was no retreat for me. But 
this was owing to my too great condescension. It is 
true there was a time when I was obliged to submit to 
such things, but now it is otherways, whatever may be 
the event of public measures. It is long since I had 
anything to write to you, and yet I am still writing, not 
that my letters give me pleasure, but that I may pro- 
voke you to answer them. I write this on the 2ist of 
April, being at dinner at the house of Vestorius, who is 


no good logician, but I assure you, an excellent account- 
ant. Epistle to Atticus. 

LARE, JOHN, an English poet; born at Help- 
stone, July 13, 1793; died at Northampton, 
May 20, 1864. His father was a poor farm- 
laborer, and he was apparently born to a like lowly 
station in life. By one means or another he managed 
to gain some education. But the general course of 
his life was erratic. We find him a pot-boy in a pub- 
lic-house, a gardener's apprentice, a stroller with the 
gypsies, a lime-burner, and a militia recruit; and in 
1817 he was a recipient of relief from the parish. He 
had managed to save twenty shillings, which he ex- 
pended in getting out a prospectus for a Collection of 
Original Trifles. A copy of tEis prospectus fell into 
the hands of a London publisher, who in 1820 pub- 
lished the poems, with additions, under the title, Poems 
Descriptive of Rural Life and Scenery, by John Clare, 
a Northamptonshire Peasant. The little volume at- 
tracted much notice ; and what from the sale of it, and 
from presents by patrons of literature, Clare found 
himself in possession of an income of some 45 a year, 
upon which he married. He fell into irregular habits, 
and in three years was penniless. In 1827 he pub- 
lished a volume entitled The Shepherd's Calendar, 
copies of which he was accustomed to hawk around 
the country. In 1835 he wrote another volume entitled 
The Ritral Muse. Not long afterward he began to 
manifest symptoms of violent insanity, and in 1837 
he was committed to a lunatic asylum, where the re- 


maining twenty-seven years of his life were passed. 
He had, however, periods of lucidity, and in one of 
these he composed the following poem: 


I am! yet what I am who cares or knows? 

My friends forsake me like a memory lost 
I am a self-consumer of my woes, 

They rise and vanish, an oblivious host, 
Shadows of life, whose very 'soul is lost. 
And yet I am I live though I am tossed 

Into the nothingness of scorn and worse, 
Into the living sea of waking dream, 

Where there is neither sense of life nor joys, 
But the huge shipwreck of my own esteem 

And all that's dear. Even those I loved the best 

Are strange : nay they are stranger than the rest. 

I long for scenes where man has never trod, 
For scenes where woman never smiled or wept; 

There to abide with my Creator, God, 
And sleep, as I in childhood sweetly slept, 

Full of high thoughts unborn. So let me lie, 

The grass below, above, the vaulted sky. 

Among the poems which Clare wrote in his prime 
are not a few which deserve to stand high in their 
class. Such as these: 


Bowing adorers of the gale, 
Ye cowslips delicately pale 

Upraise your loaded stems, 
Unfold your cups in splendor ; speak ! 
Who decked you with that ruddy streak, 

And gilt your golden gems? 


Violets, sweet tenants of the shade, 
In purple's richest pride arrayed, 

Your errand here fulfill 1 
Go, bid the artist's simple stain 
Your lustre imitate in vain, 

And match your Maker's skill. 

Daisies, ye flowers of lowly birth, 
Embroiderers of the carpet earth, 

That stud the velvet sod; 
Open to Spring's refreshing air; 
In sweetest smiling bloom declare 

Your Maker and my God. 


Loud is the Summer's busy song, 
The smallest breeze can find a tongue, 
While insects of each tiny size 
Grow teasing with their melodies, 
Till noon burns with its blistering breath 
Around, and day lies still as death. 

The busy noise of man and brute 
Is on a sudden lost and mute ; 
Even the brook that leaps along, 
Seems weary of its bubbling song, 
And so soft its waters creep 
Tired silence sinks in sounder sleep. 

The cricket on its bank is dumb; 
The very flies forget to hum; 
And, save the wagon rocking round, 
The landscape sleeps without a sound. 
The breeze is stopped, the lazy bough 
Hath not a leaf that danceth now. 

The taller grass upon the hill, 

And spider's threads are standing still; 

The feathers, dropped from moor-hen's wing 


Which to the water's surface cling, 
Are steadfast, and as heavy seem 
As stones beneath them in the stream, 

Hawkweed and groundsel's fanny downs, 

Unruffled keep their seedy crowns; 

And in the overheated air 

Not one light thing is floating there, 

Save that to the earnest eye, 

The restless heat seems twittering by. 

Noon swoons beneath the heat it made. 
And follows e'en within the shade; 
Until the sun slopes in the west, 
Like weary traveller, glad to rest 
On pillowed clouds of many hues. 
Then Nature's voice its joy renews, 

And checkered field and grassy plain 
Hum with their summer songs again, 
A requiem to the day's decline, 
Whose setting sunbeams coolly shine, 
As welcome to the day's feeble powers 
As falling dews to thirsty flowers. 


Within a thick and spreading hawthorn bush 

That overhung a molehill large and round, 
I heard from morn to morn a merry thrush 

Sing hymns of rapture, while I drank the sound 
With joy and oft an unintruding guest, 

I watched her secret toils from day to day, 
How true she warped the moss to make her nest, 

And modelled it within with wood and clay. 

And by-and-by, like heath-bells gilt with dew, 
There lay her shining eggs as bright as flowers, 

Ink-spotted over, shells of green and blue, 
And there I witnessed, in the summer hours, 

A brood of nature's minstrels chirp and fly, 
Glad as the sunshine and the laughing sky. 


English statesman and historian ; born at Din- 
ton, Wiltshire, February 18, 1608; died at 
Rouen, France, December 9, 1674. Being the third 
son of a wealthy father, he was destined for the 
Church, and at the age of thirteen was sent to Mag- 
dalen College, Oxford, to study for the clerical pro- 
fession. But the death of his two elder brothers left 
him, at the age of sixteen, the heir of the family es- 
tates; and it was though*" that the bar was for him 
a more befitting (profession than the pulpit. He went 
to London, and entered the Middle Temple as a stu- 
dent of law. He became intimate with Ben Jonson, 
Waller, Carew, Selden, Chillingworth, Hales, and the 
other literary celebrities of the day. He took a high 
place in his profession, and at thirty was among the 
leading members of the bar. In 1640 he entered 
Parliament, siding mainly with the reforming party, 
and vigorously opposing the arbitrary measures of the 
Crown. But when the disputes between King and 
Parliament came to the point of open war, Hyde em- 
braced the Royal cause, and was one of the ablest 
supporters of Charles L, by whom he was made Chan- 
cellor of the Exchequer. The Royal cause was 
definitively lost by the defeat at Naseby (June 14, 
1645). Hyde not long after took up his residence in 
Jersey, where he resided nearly two years, studying 
the Psalms and writing the early chapters of his His- 
tory of the Rebellion. In the spring of 1648 he drew 
up an answer to the ordinance which had been issued 
by Parliament, declaring the King guilty of the civil 
war, and forbidding all future addresses to him. 


Charles I. having been executed, and his son, Charles 
II, having nominally acceded to the throne, Hyde 
joined him on the Continent and became his chief 
adviser, drawing up all the state papers, and conduct- 
ing the voluminous correspondence with the English 
Royalists ; and in 1658 the dignity of Lord Chancellor 
was conferred upon him by the as yet crownless and 
landless King. He himself was in the meantime often 
reduced to the sorest pecuniary straits. In 1652 he 
writes : " I have neither clothes nor fire to preserve 
me from the sharpness of the season ;" and not long 
after, " I have not had a livre of my own for the last 
three months." 

Charles was at length restored to his kingdom in 
May, 1660. Hyde accompanied him to England, and 
took his seat as Speaker of the House of Lords. At 
the coronation in June, 1660, he was created Earl of 
Clarendon, and received a royal gift of 20,000. His 
consequence was not a little increased by the fact that, 
not long before, his daughter, Anne Hyde, had been 
married to the King's brother, the Duke of York, after- 
ward King James II. ; and it came to be looked upon as 
not unlikely that their children might sit upon the 
British throne. This possibility was in time realized; 
for James II. was deposed, and his two daughters, 
Mary and Anne, came in succession to be Queens- 
regnant of Great Britain. 

Clarendon retained his position as Lord Chancellor 
for six years, until 1667. He soon became unpopular 
both with the people on account of his haughty de- 
meanor, and with the Court on account of his deter- 
mined opposition to the prevailing extravagance and 
dissoluteness. At the royal command he resigned the 


Chancellorship. He was impeached by the House of 
Commons for high treason. The House of Lords re- 
fused to accept the charge as presented; but it was 
evident to Clarendon, that his ruin was inevitable. In 
November, 1667, he left the kingdom, never to return ; 
having in the meanwhile addressed to the House of 
Lords a vindication of his conduct. The House of 
Commons declared this Vindication to be seditious, and 
ordered it to be burned by the hangman. A bill of 
attainder was brought in against him, which was re- 
jected by the Lords; but an act was finally passed 
condemning him to perpetual banishment unless he 
should appear for trial within six weeks. He took 
up his abode at Rouen in France, where he died, hav- 
ing in vain addressed an appeal to Charles II. that he 
might be allowed to end his days in his native land. 
His remains were, however, brought to England, and 
interred in Westminster Abbey. 

The closing years of Clarendon's life were devoted 
to writing various works, among which were numer- 
ous Essays; a Survey of Hobbes*s Leviathan, and an 
Autobiography; but mainly to the completion of his 
History of the Rebellion, which had been commenced 
nearly twenty years before. He directed that this His- 
tory should not be published until all of those who 
had been prominent actors in the matter were dead. 
It was not, indeed, published until 1702; and then 
many alterations and omissions were made by Bishop 
Spratt and Dean Aldrich, who had undertaken to edit 
the manuscript. This edition was several times re- 
printed; and it was not till 1826 that a wholly au- 
thentic edition was printed at Oxford. Clarendon's 
History of the Rebellion and Civil Wars, notwith- 
standing numerous defects, is yet one of the most im- 


portant contributions to English history. Several por- 
tions such as the account of the Reception of the 
Liturgy at Edinburgh in 1637, tne Execution of Mon- 
trose in 1650, and the Escape of Charles II. after the 
Battle of Worcester, in 1650, are admirably written. 
But the most striking passages are the delineations of 
leading actors in the great drama, although these not 
unfrequently are strongly colored by the political and 
personal feelings of the author. 


It will not be unnecessary to add a short character of 
his person, that posterity may know the inestimable 
loss which the nation underwent in being deprived of a 
prince whose example would have had a greater in- 
fluence upon the manners and piety of the nation than 
the most strict laws can have. 

He was, if ever any, the most worthy of the title of 
an honest man, so great a lover of justice that no tempta- 
tion could dispose him to a wrongful action, except 
that it was so disguised to him that he believed it to 
be just He had a tenderness and compassion of nature 
which restrained him from ever doing a hard-hearted 
thing; and therefore he was so apt to grant pardon to 
malefactors, that the judges of the land represented to 
him the damage and insecurity to the public that flowed 
from such his indulgence; and then he restrained himself 
from pardoning either murders or highway robberies, 
and quickly discerned the fruits of his severity by a 
wonderful reformation of those enormities. 

He was very punctual and regular in his devotions; 
he was never known to enter upon his recreations or 
sports, though never so early in the morning, before he 
had been at public prayers; so that on hunting-days, 
his chaplains were bound to a very early attendance. 
He was likewise very strict in observing the hours of 
his private cabinet devotions; and was so severe an 
exacter of gravity and reverence in all mention of r&- 
VOL. V. 31 


ligion, that he could never endure any light or profane 
word, with what sharpness of wit soever it was covered; 
and though he was well pleased and delighted with 
reading verses made upon any occasion, no man durst 
bring before him anything that was profane or unclean. 
He was so great an example of conjugal affection, that 
they who did not imitate him in that particular, durst 
not brag of their liberty; and he did not only permit 
but direct his bishops to prosecute those scandalous vices, 
in the ecclesiastical courts, against persons of eminence 
and near relation to his service. 

His kingly virtues had some mixture and alloy that 
hindered them from shining in full lustre, and from 
producing those fruits they should have been attended 
with. He was not in his nature very bountiful, though 
he gave very much. This appeared more after the Duke 
of Buckingham's death, after which those showers fell 
very rarely; and he paused too long in giving, which 
made those to whom he gave less sensible of the benefit. 
He kept state to the full, which made his court very 
orderly, no man presuming to be seen in a place where 
he had no pretence to be. He saw and observed men 
long before he received them about his person, and 
did not love strangers nor very confident men. He was 
a patient hearer of causes, which he frequently accus- 
tomed himself to at the counsel board, and judged very 
well, and was dexterous in the meditating part; so that 
he often put an end to causes by persuasion which the 
stubbornness of men's humors made dilatory in courts of 

He was very fearless in his person, but in his riper 
years not very enterprising. He had an excellent under- 
standing, but was not confident enough of it; which 
made him oftentimes change his own opinion for a worse, 
and follow the advice of men that did not judge so 
well as himself. This made him more irresolute than 
the conjuncture of his affairs would admit. If he had 
been of a rougher and more imperious nature, he would 
have found more respect and duty. And his not apply- 
ing some severe cures to approaching evils proceeded 


from the lenity of his nature and the tenderness of his 
conscience, which, in all cases of blood, made him choose 
the softer way, and not hearken to severe counsels, how 
reasonably soever urged. This only restrained him from 
pursuing his advantage in the first Scottish expedi- 
tion. . . . 

So many miraculous circumstances contributed to his 
ruin that men might well think that heaven and earth 
conspired it. Though he was, from the first declension 
of his power, so much betrayed by his own servants 
that there were few who remained faithful to him, yet 
that treachery proceeded not always from any treasonable 
purpose to do him any harm, but from particular and 
personal animosities against other men; and afterward 
the terror all men were under of the Parliament, and 
the guilt they were conscious of themselves, made them 
watch all opportunities to make themselves gracious to 
those who could do them good; and so they became spies 
upon their masters, and from one piece of knavery were 
hardened and confirmed to undertake another till at last 
they had no hope of preservation but by the destruction of 
their master. And after all this, when a man might 
reasonably believe that less than a universal defection of 
three nations could not have reduced a great king to "so 
ugly a fate, it is most certain that, in that very hour when 
he was thus wickedly murdered in the sight of the sun, 
he had as great a share in the hearts and affections of 
his subjects in general, was as much beloved, esteemed, 
and longed for by the people in general of the three na- 
tions as any of his predecessors had ever been. 

To conclude: He was the worthiest gentleman, the 
best master, the best friend, the best husband, the best 
father, and the best Christian that the age in which he 
lived produced. And if he were not the greatest king, 
if he were without some parts and qualities which have 
made some kings great and happy, no other prince was 
ever unhappy who was possessed of half his virtues and 
endowments, and so much without any kind of vice. 



He was one of those men whom his very enemies 
could not condemn without commending him at the 
same time; for he could never have done half that mis- 
chief without great parts of courage, industry, and 
judgment He must have had a wonderful understand- 
ing in the natures and humors of men, and as great a 
dexterity in applying them; who, from a private and 
obscure birth though of good family without interest 
or estate, alliance or friendship, could raise himself to 
such a height, and compound and knead such opposite 
and contradictory tempers, humors, and interests into a 
consistence that contributed to his designs and to their 
own destruction; whilst himself grew insensibly power- 
ful enough to cut off those by whom he had climbed in 
the instant that they projected to demolish their own 
building. . . . 

Without doubt no man with more wickedness ever 
attempted anything, or brought to pass what he desired 
more wickedly, more in the face and contempt of reli- 
gion and moral honesty. Yet wickedness as great as his 
could never have accomplished those designs without 
the assistance of a great spirit, an admirable circum- 
spection and sagacity, and a most magnanimous resolu- 

When he appeared first in the Parliament, he seemed 
to have a person in no degree gracious, no ornament of 
discourse, none of those talents which use to conciliate 
the affections of the stander-by. Yet as he grew into 
grace and authority his parts seemed to be raised, as if 
he had concealed faculties till he had occasion to use 
them; and when he was to act the part of a great man 
he did it without any indecency, notwithstanding the 
want of custom. After he was confirmed Protector, by 
the humble petition and advice of Parliament, he con- 
sulted with very few upon any action of importance, 
nor communicated any enterprise he resolved upon with 
more than those who were to have principal parts in the 
execution of it; nor with them sooner than was abso- 


lutely necessary. What he once resolved, in which he 
was not rash, he would not be dissuaded from, nor en- 
dure any contradiction of his power and authority, but 
extorted obedience from those who were not willing to 
yield it ... 

Thus he subdued a spirit that had often been trouble- 
some to the most sovereign power, and made Westminster 
Hall as obedient and subservient to his commands as any 
of the rest of his quarters. In all other matters which 
did not concern the life of his jurisdiction he seemed 
to have great reverence for the law, rarely interposing 
between party and party. As he proceeded with this kind 
of indignation and haughtiness with those who were 
refractory, and durst contend with his greatness, toward 
all who complied with his good pleasure, and courted his 
protection he used great civility, generosity, and bounty. 
To reduce three nations which perfectly hated him to 
an entire obedience to all his dictates; to awe and govern 
those nations by an army that was undevoted to him, and 
wished his ruin, was an instance of very prodigious ad- 
dress. But his greatness at home was but a shadow of 
the glory he had abroad. It was hard to discover which 
feared him most, France, Spain", or the Low Countries, 
where his friendship was current at the value he put 
upon it. As they did all sacrifice their honor and their 
interest to his pleasure, so there is nothing he could 
have demanded that either of them would have denied 
him. . . 

To conclude his character: Cromwell was not so far 
a man of blood as to follow Machiavel's method; which 
prescribes, upon a total alteration of government, as a 
thing absolutely necessary, to cut off all the heads of 
those, and extirpate their families, who are friends to 
the old one. It was confidently reported that in the 
council of officers it was more than once proposed " that 
there might be a general massacre of all the royal party, 
as the only expedient to secure the government;" but 
that Cromwell would never consent to: it may be out of 
too great a contempt of his enemies. In a word, as he 
was guilty of many crimes against which damnation is 


denounced, and for which hell-fire is prepared, so he had 
some good qualities which have caused the memory of 
some men in all ages to be celebrated: and he will be 
looked on by posterity as a brave, wicked man. 


Mr. Hampden was a man of great cunning, and, it 
may be, of the most discerning spirit, and of the great- 
est address and insinuation to bring anything to pass 
which he desired of any man of that time, and who laid 
the design deepest. He was a gentleman of good ex- 
traction and a fair fortune; who from a life of great 
pleasure and license had, on a sudden, retired to extra- 
ordinary sobriety and strictness, and yet retained his us- 
ual cheerfulness and affability; which, together with the 
opinion of his wisdom and justice, and the courage he 
had showed in opposing the ship-money, raised his repu- 
tation to a great height, not only in Buckinghamshire, 
where he lived, but generally throughout the kingdom. 

He was not a man of many words, and rarely began the 
discourse, or made the first entrance upon any business 
that was assumed, but a very weighty speaker; and after 
he heard a full debate and observed how the House was 
like to be inclined, he took up the argument, and shortly, 
and clearly, and craftily, so stated it that he commonly 
conducted it to the conclusion he desired; and if he 
found that he could not do that he was never without 
the dexterity to divert the debate to another time, and 
to prevent the determining anything in the negative which 
might prove inconvenient in the future. 

He made so great a show of civility, and modesty, and 
humility, and always of mistrusting his own judgment, 
and esteeming his with whom he conferred for the 
present, that he seemed to have no opinions or resolu- 
tions but such as he contracted from the information and 
instruction he received upon the discourses of others, 
whom he had a wonderful art of governing, and leading 
into his principles and inclinations, whilst they believed 
that he wholly depended upon their counsel and advice. 
No man had a greater power over himself, or was less 


the man that he seemed to be; which shortly after ap- 
peared to everybody, when he cared less to keep on the 


In the unhappy battle of Newbury [September 20, 1643] 
was slain the Lord Viscount Falkland, a person of such 
prodigious parts of learning and knowledge, of that in- 
imitable sweetness and delight in conversation, of so flow- 
ing and obliging a humanity and goodness to mankind, 
and of that primitive simplicity and integrity of life, that 
if there were no other brand upon this odious and ac- 
cursed civil war than that single loss, it must be most 
infamous and execrable to all posterity. . . . 

He had a courage of the most clear and keen temper 
and so far from fear that he seemed not without some 
appetite of danger; and therefore, upon any occasion 
of action, he always engaged his person in those troops 
which he thought by the forwardness of the command- 
ers to be most like to be the farthest engaged. And in all 
such encounters he had about him an extraordinary cheer- 
fulness, without at all affecting the execution that usu- 
ally attended them ; in which he took no delight, but took 
pains to prevent it where it was not by resistance made 
necessary: insomuch that at Edgehill (October, 1624), 
when the enemy was routed, he was likely to have incur- 
red great peril by interposing to save those who had 
thrown away their arms, and against whom, it may be, 
others were more fierce for their having thrown them 
away; so that a man might think he came into the field 
chiefly out of curiosity to see the face of danger, and 
charity to prevent the shedding of blood. Yet in his 
natural inclination he acknowledged he was addicted ta 
the profession of a soldier; and shortly after he came to 
his fortune, before he was of age, he went into the Low 
Countries, with a resolution of procuring command, and 
to give himself up to it, from which he was diverted from 
the complete inactivity of that summer; so he returned to 
England, till the first alarm from the north ; then again he 
made ready for the field, and though he had received some 


repulse in the command of a troop of horse, of which 
he had a promise, he went a volunteer with the Earl of 

From the entrance into this unnatural war his natural 
cheerfulness and vivacity grew clouded, and a kind of 
sadness and dejection of spirits stole upon him which he 
had never been used to. Yet being one of those who 
believed that one battle would end all differences, and 
that there would be so great a victory on one side that 
the other would be compelled to submit to any conditions 
from the victor which supposition and conclusion gen- 
erally sunk into the minds of most men, and prevented 
the looking after many advantages that might then have 
been laid hold of he resisted these indispositions. But 
after the King's return from Brentford, and the furious 
resolution of the two Houses not to admit of any treaty 
for peace, those indispositions, which had before touched 
him, grew into a perfect habit of uncheerfulness ; and he 
who had been so exactly easy and affable to all men that 
his face and countenance was always pleasant and vacant 
to his company, and held any cloudiness and less pleas- 
antness of the visage a kind of rudeness or incivility, be- 
came, on a sudden, less communicable; and thence very 
sad, pale, and exceedingly affected with the spleen. In 
his clothes and habit, which he had minded before al- 
ways with more neatness, and industry, and expense, than 
is usual to so great a soul, he was now not only incurious, 
but too negligent; and in his reception of suitors, and 
the necessary or casual addresses to his place, so quick, 
and sharp, and severe that there wanted not some men 
strangers to his nature and disposition who believed 
him proud and imperious; from which no mortal man 
was ever more free. . . . 

When there was any overture or hope of peace, he 
would be more erect and vigorous, and exceedingly solic- 
itous to press anything which he thought might promote 
it; and sitting among his friends, often, after a deep sil- 
ence and frequent sighs, would, with a shrill and sad ac- 
cent ingeminate the word, " Peace ! peace ! " and would 
passionately profess that "the very agony of the war, 


and the view of the calamities and desolation the kingdom 
did and must endure, took his sleep from him and would 
shortly break his heart." This made some think, or 
pretend to think, that "he was so much enamored of 
peace that he would have been glad the king should have 
bought it at any price; " which was a most unreasonable 
calumny. As if a man that was himself the most punc- 
tual and precise in every circumstance that might reflect 
upon conscience and honor could have wished the King 
to have committed a trespass against either. % . . 

In the morning before the battle as always upon ac- 
tion he was very cheerful, and put himself into the 
first rank of Lord Byron's regiment, then advancing upon 
the enemy, who had lined the hedges on both sides with 
musketeers; from whence he was shot with a musket In 
the lower part of the belly, and in the instant falling 
from his horse, his body was not found till the next morn- 
ing; till when there was some hope he might have been 
a prisoner; though his nearest friends, who knew his 
temper, received small comfort from that imagination. 
Thus fell that incomparable young man, in the four-and- 
thirtieth year of his age, having so much dispatched the 
business of life that the eldest rarely attain to that im- 
mense knowledge, and the youngest enter not into the 
world with more innocence- Whoever leads such a life 
needs be the less anxious upon how short warning it is 
taken from him. 

novelist and dramatist; born at Limoges, De- 
cember 3, 1840. He was educated at the 
Bonaparte Lyceum, in Paris. He chose literature as 
a profession, contributed many articles to French and 
Belgian journals, and in 1866 became war correspond- 
ent for the Avenir National during the war between 


Austria and Italy. He drew upon himself the censure 
of the Imperial authorities by his lectures delivered in 
1868, and the next year incurred a fine of 1,000 francs 
by an article in the Figaro. During the Franco-Prus- 
sian War he was a correspondent for several French 
newspapers. After the war he was appointed a sec- 
retary of the commissioners of the papers of the Tuiler- 
ies, and later charged with the organization of a library 
and lecture-hall in each of the arrondissements of 
Paris. In 1871 he returned to literary pursuits. 
Among his numerous works are Une Drdleuse (1862) ; 
Pierille (1863) ; Les Ornihes de la Vie (1864) ; Voy- 
ages tfun Parisien (1865); L' Assassin, republished 
under the title Robert Burat (1866) ; Mademoiselle 
Cachemire (1867) ; La Libre Parole (1868) ; Histoire 
de la Revolution de 1870-1872; Ruines et Fantomes 
(1873) I Les Muscadins (1874) ; Camille Desmoulins; 
Lucile Desmoulins; Etudes sur les Dantonistes (1875) J 
Cinq Ans Apres; I' Alsace et la Lorraine depuis I'An- 
nexwn (1876) ; Le Train No. 7 (1877) ; La Maison 
Vide (1878) ; Monsieur le Ministre (1881) ; and still 
later, Moliere et Ses (Euvres; Les Prussiens chez eux; 
La Vie Moderne au Theatre; Le Prince Zillah (1884) ; 
Puyjoli (1890). Claretie was for some years director 
of the Comedie Fran9aise ; and was elected a member 
of the Academy in 1888. His dramatic compositions 
relate mostly to the time of the Revolution. 


"The wretches; not satisfied with assassinating me, 
they are going to kill my wife, too 1 " Canaille had said. 
At the same hour Madame Duplessis, in her terror, was 
writing a letter to Robespierre which remained unfinished, 
and which never reached Maximilien, a letter in which the 
cry of Camille was repeated. "Robespierre, was it not 


enough to kill your best friend; will you also shed the 
blood of his wife?" Lucile had been denounced by a 
certain Amans, imprisoned in the Luxembourg a mis- 
erable spy, a decoy of his fellow-prisoners; a mouton, 
who, in a letter to Robespierre, accused the ex-General 
Dillon of conspiring in favor of Danton, Camille, and 
Philippeaux. " Dillon," this Amans wrote, " works in 
his office every night until five or six o'clock in the 
morning; he has a trustworthy messenger, who comes 
and goes with packets ; suspicious-looking people come to 
see him, and speak with him privately." ... It is 
not the first time, in fact, that we have had to notice the 
comparative liberty allowed to prisoners under the Reign 
of Terror. 

Amas accused Dillon of having money and of foment- 
ing a conspiracy. The agent, Alexandre La Flotte, soon 
gave a name to this imaginary plot. Fouquier complained 
that they meant to assassinate him, and the conspiracy of 
the prisons was created, Dillon, according to La Flotte, 
had concerted a project with Simond, the deputy (a friend 
of Herault). They distributed money among the peo- 
ple. They sent " persons " among the Revolutionary Tri- 
bunal. Desmoulin's wife, added La Flotte, is in the plot 

The destruction of Lucile a woman! was decided 
upon. The committee, not satisfied with having silenced 
forever the pen of the pamphleteer, determined to strike 
the author of the "Vieux Cordelier" another blow, 
through her who bore his name. 

At the hour when the heads of Danton and Camille 
fell Vadier mounted the rostrum of the convention, and, 
declaring that he had been present without being seen, at 
the scandalous debates of the Revolutionary Tribunal, as- 
serted that Dillon and Simond were conspiring now in 
their prison. " They have," he said, " organized a cohort 
of scoundrels, who are to issue forth from the Luxem- 
bourg, with a pass-word, to occupy the avenues to the 
Committees of Public Welfare and General Safety, fall 
upon the members composing these committees and im- 
molate them to their fury." "And these men," added 
Vadier " still breathe." Couthon succeeded him on the 


rostrum, and asked for a fresh sentence of death. The 
following night the prisoners accused of having taken part 
in the " conspiracy of the prisons " were taken to the 
Conciergerie. Among them were Arthur Dillon, the dep- 
uty Simond, the ex-Bishop Gobel, Anaxagoras Chaum- 
ette, one of Canaille's victims; Grammont-Roselly, the 
actor, adjutant-general of the revolutionary army, who 
had insulted Marie Antoinette as she went to the scaf- 
fold; Grammont-Nourry, his son; Lambert, the turnkey; 
Byssier, the surgeon; and the widows of Hebert and 
Camilla. . . . Certain jailers of the Luxembourg, 
some old soldiers of the army of Ph. Ronson, a man-at- 
arms belonging to the household of the Count of Artois, 
Commissary Lapalue, Captain Lassalle, of the merchant 
marine, Adjutant Denet, Lebrasse, a lieutenant of the 
gendarmerie, were imprisoned with the wretched women. 
All these unhappy things, threatened with a common ac- 
cusation, were brought before the Revolutionary Tri- 
bunal as guilty of having conspired against the safety of 
the people, and of having wished to destroy the National 
Convention. To destroy the convention! Lucile wished 
to do that ! Fouquier-Tinville went still further in odious 
absurdity ; he accused Dillon, Lambert, Simond, and Des- 
moulins' widow of having " aimed at replacing on the 
throne of France the son of Louis XVI." 

"They were in the pay of the foreigners/' said the 
public prosecutor. Lucile exert herself to destroy the 
convention, and place the Dauphin on the throne! All 
that she wished was to see Camille again, to save him, if 
she could, or to find him again in death, if her efforts 
should prove vain. The unhappy wife never received 
those eloquent, sublime, and touching letters of farewell 
which Camille had addressed to her from his prison. She 
had not been able to press a last kiss upon the paper 
blotted with Camile's tears. She longed then, with fe- 
verish ardor like that of the martyrs eager to be de- 
livered to the tortures for death, which should reunite 
her with him whom she had lost. 

Before her judges she was calm and intrepid, but withal 
womanly. She denied that General Dillon had written to 


her, and sent her three thousand livres to cover the ex- 
penses of an outbreak against the Convention. "At 
least," the president, Dumas, said to Dillon, "you can- 
not deny having lighted the flame of revolt in the pris- 
ons." " I said," replied the ex-general, " that if the ter- 
rors of the days of September were to be re-enacted in 
the prisons (as was reasonably supposed at one time), it 
would be the duty of every brave man to defend his life, 
to demand to be heard and judged before he allowed him- 
self to be sacrificed." This was, in fact, the only crime 
of the accused; they struggled with the executioner for 
their own existence or that of those dear to them. 

Lucile was guilty only of despair and love; she had 
never conspired, she had but hovered around the prison 
like a bird over its nest She had called on Camille's 
name, she had made mournful signs which were intended 
to convey all her feelings, in one look, one gesture. That 
was enough for her destruction. She was condemned to 
death after three days' deliberation, with eighteen others 
(all under twenty-six years of age), on the 24th Germinal. 
Nearly all the condemned might say, with Chaumette, at 
the tribunal : " You have decided upon my fate, I await 
.my destiny with calmness ! " 

The astonishing serenity which Lucile had preserved 
during, the trial, when there was a look in her eyes as if 
she saw far beyond the judgment hall, had given place to 
exultation; and on hearing the sentence that condemned 
her to death she raised her head and, with eyes that glis- 
tened with the brilliancy of fever, cried, "What happi- 
ness 1 in a few hours I shall see my Camille again." And 
then her loyal glance fell upon her judges. " In quitting 
this earth, to which love no longer binds me/' she said, 
" I am less to be pitied than you; for at your death, which 
will be infamous, you will be haunted by remorse for 
what you have done." . . . Lucile dressed herself for 
death as if for a bridal. She displayed, I repeat, the holy 
exultation of a martyr. " The blood of a woman drove 
the Tarquins out of Rome; so may mine drive away tyr- 
anny" are words imputed to her. 

While Hebert's widow wept, Lucile smiled. She bad 


cut her hair " close to her head," we are told by the exe- 
cutioner, and she sent it to her mother, perhaps with a 
letter which she wrote in her prison a short letter, but 
irresistibly touching in its devotedness, its resignation, 
its fervor: 

" Good-night, my dear Mamma. A tear drops from 
my eyes ; it is for you. I shall fall asleep in the calmness 
of innocence. Lucile.' 

When the tumbril the same, perhaps, which Camille 
had ascended a week before arrived to carry away the 
condemned, the ex- General Arthur Dillon came towards 
poor Lucile bowing his head. " I am sorry," she said, 
" to have caused your death." Dillon smiled, and replied 
that the accusation against him was only a pretext, and 
was beginning to compassionate her, in his turn, when 
Lucile interrupted him. " Look/' she said, " at my face ; 
is it that of a woman who needs consolation ? " In truth, 
she looked radiant. She had tied a white neckerchief un- 
der her chin. It covered her hair. She looked a little 
pale, but charming. "I saw this young creature," says 
Tissot, in his Histoire de la, Revolution; " and she made 
an indelible impression on me, in which the memory of 
her beauty, the virginal graces of her person, the melody 
of her heart-stirring voice, were mingled with admira- 
tion of her courage and regret for the cruel fate which 
threw her into the jaws of death a few days after her 
husband, and which denied her even the consolation of be- 
ing united to him in the same grave." Camille, " that 
good fellow," could have said nothing in his own defence 
but " I am a child." Lucile preferred to hold up her head 
and ask for death. " They have assassinated the best of 
men," she again said ; " if I did not hate them for that, I 
should bless them for the service they have done me this 
|day." Among all the heroic women who have died upon 
the scaffold, the youthful, smiling face of Lucile stands 
out prominently, illuminated with a joyous light. It is 
the wife dying for the husband, a victim of passionate 
love of the noblest, holiest kind. 

She bowed to Dillon, " with playfulness," as if she were 
taking leave of him in a drawing-room and should soon 


see him again ; then she took her place in the second tum- 
bril with Gramtnont-Roselly and his son, who reproached 
each other with their respective deaths during the tran- 
sit; Brumeau-Lacroix, Lapalue, Lassalle, and Heberfs 
widow. Lapalue was twenty-six years old, Lasalle was 
twenty-four. Lucile chatted with them pleasantly and 
smilingly. Grammont-Nourry having called his father a 
scoundrel, it is recorded that Lucile Desmoulins said to 
him, " You insulted Antoinette when she was in the tum- 
bril ; that does not surprise me. Had you better not keep 
a little of your courage to brave another queen, Death, 
to whom we are hastening? " " Grammont," says an 
eye-witness, " answered with insults, but she turned from 
him with contempt." Grammont-Roselly desired to em- 
brace his son before he died, but his son refused that last 
embrace with the utmost brutality. 

" Long live the King ! " cried Dillon, returning on the 
scaffold to what he had been at Versailles. Lucile said 
nothing; she mounted the steps of the scaffold with a 
sort of happy pride. They were for her the steps of an 
altar. She was going to Camille! This thought made 
her smile. The executioner looked at her, moved in spite 
of himself. She was, he has told us, scarcely pale. This 
young woman, who looked like a picture by Greuze, died 
like a Roman matron. The fair, childlike head retained 
its expression of profound joy and passionate ecstasy even 
when flung bleeding into the blood-stained sawdust of 
the dreadful basket by the brutal hands of Samson's as- 
sistant Translation of MRS. CASHEL-HOEY. 

American journalist and humorist; born at 
Berlin, Md., July n, 1841. He entered 
journalism when a youth and for a time wrote largely 
upon economic subjects. Since 1875 he has been edi- 


tor of The Textile Record of Philadelphia. He is best 
known as a humorist, his first book, Out of the Hurly 
Burly (1880), having reached a sale of over one 
million copies. His other works are Elbow Room 
(1881); The Fortunate Island (1889); Captain 
Bluitt (1902); and The Quakeress (1905). 


While I was over at Pencador, the other day, I called on 
the Potts/ Mr. Potts is liable to indulge in extravagance 
in his conversation, and as Mrs. Potts is an extremely 
conscientious woman where matters of fact are concerned, 
she's obliged to keep her eye on him. Potts was telling 
me about an incident that occurred in the town a few 
days before, and this is the way he related it : 

POTTS. "You see old Bradley over here is perfectly 
crazy on the subject of gases and the atmosphere, and 
such things absolutely wild; and one day he was dis- 
puting with Green about how high up in the air life could 
be sustained, and Bradley said an animal could live about 
forty million miles above the earth, if " 

MRS. POTTS. "Not forty million, my dear; only forty 
miles, he said." 

P. "Forty, was it? Thank you. Well, sir, old Green, 
you know, said that was ridiculous ; and he said he'd bet 
Bradley a couple of hundred thousand dollars that life 
couldn't be sustained half that way up, and so " 

MRS. P. "William, you are wrong; he only offered to 
bet fifty dollars." 

P. "Well, anyhow, Bradley took him up quicker'n a 
wink, and they agreed to send up a cat in a balloon to 
decide the bet So what does Bradley do but buy a balloon 
about twice as big as our barn, and begin to " 

MRS. P. " It was only about ten feet in diameter, Mr. 
Adeler; William forgets." 

P. " Begin to inflate her. When she was filled, it took 
eighty men to hold her, and" 

MRS. P. "Eighty men, Mr. Potts ? Why, you know Mr. 
Bradley held the balloon himself." 


P. "He did, did he? Oh, very well; what's the odds? 
And when everything was ready, they brought out Brad- 
ley's tom-cat, and put it in the basket and tied it in so 
that it couldn't jump, you know. There were about one 
hundred thousand people looking on, and when they let 
go you never heard such a " 

MRS. P. " There was not more than two hundred peo- 
ple there. I counted them myself." 

P. " Oh, don't bother me ! I say you never heard such 
a yell as the balloon went scooting up into the sky, pretty 
near out of sight. Bradley said she went up about one 
thousand miles, and now don't interrupt me, Henrietta ; 
I know what the man said and that cat, mind you, a 
howling like a hundred fog-horns, so's you could a' heard 
her from here to Peru. Well, sir, when she was up so's 
she looked as small as a pin-head, something or other 
burst. I dunno how it was, but pretty soon down came 
that balloon a flickering toward the earth at the rate of 
fifty miles a minute, and old " 

MRS. P. " Mr. Potts, you know that the balloon came 
down as gently as " 

P. " Oh, do hush up ! Women don't know anything 
about such things. And old Bradley, he had a kind of a 
registering thermometer fixed in the basket along with 
that cat. Some sort of a patent machine ; cost thousands 
of dollars, and he was expecting to examine it; and Green 
had an idea he'd lift out a dead cat and scoop in the 
stakes. When all of a sudden as she came pelting down 
a tornado struck her now, Henrietta, what' in the 
thunder are you staring at me in that way for? It was 
a tornado a regular cyclone and it struck her and 
jammed her against the lightning rod on the Baptist 
church steeple, and there she stuck stuck on that spire 
about eight hundred feet up in the air." 

MRS. P. " You may get just as mad as you like, but I 
am positively certain that steeple's not an inch over 
ninety-five feet." 

P. " Henrietta, I wish to gracious you'd go upstairs and 
look after the children. Well, about half a minute after 
she struck, out stepped that tom-cat on to the weather- 
VOL. V. 32 


cock. It made Green sick. And just then the hurricane 
reached the weathercock and it began to revolve six hun- 
dred or seven hundred times a minute, the cat howling un- 
til you couldn't hear yourself speak. (Now, Henrietta, 
you've had your put; you keep quiet.) That cat staid on 
that weathercock about two months " 

MRS. P. " Mr. Potts, that's an awful story ; it only hap- 
pened last Tuesday." 

P. (confidentially.) "Never mind her. And on Sun- 
day the way that cat carried on and yowled, with its tail 
pointing due east, was so awful that they couldn't have 
church. And Sunday afternoon the preacher told Brad- 
ley if he didn't get that cat down he'd sue him for a mil- 
lion dollars' damages. So Bradley got a gun and shot at 
the cat fourteen hundred times (now, you didn't count 
'em, Henrietta, and I did) , and he banged the top of the 
steeple all to splinters, and at last fetched down the cat, 
shot to rags, and in her stomach he found his thermom- 
eter. She'd ate in on her way up, and it stood at eleven 
hundred degrees, so old " 

MRS. P. " No thermometer ever stood at such a figure 
as that." 

P. (indignantly.) " Oh, well, if you think you can tell 
the story better than I can, why don't you tell it ? You're 
enough to worry the life out of a man." 

Then Potts slammed the door and went out, and I left. 
I don't know whether Bradley got the stakes or not. 


" I don't take the same view of the North American In- 
dian that most people do," said Professor Bangs in a dis- 
cussion down at the grocery store in a suburban town the 
other night " Now some think that the red man displays 
a want of good taste in declining to wash himself, but I 
don't. What is dirt? It is simply matter, the same kind 
of matter exists everywhere. The earth is made of dirt, 
the things we eat are dirt, and they grow in the dirt; 
when we die and are buried we return again to the dirt 
from which we were made. Science says that all dirt is 
clean. The savage Indian knows this; his original mind 


grasps this idea; he has his eagle eye on science, and he 
has no soap. Dirt' is warm. A layer one-sixteenth of an 
inch thick on a man is said by Professor Huxley to be as 
comfortable as a fifty dollar suit of clothes. Why, then, 
should the child of the forest undress himself once a week 
by scraping this off, and expose himself to the rude blasts 
of winter? He has too much sense. His head is too 
level to let him take a square wash more than once in 
every two hundred years, and even then he don't rub hard. 

" And then in regard to his practice of eating dogs ; why 
shouldn't a man eat a dog? A dog sometimes eats a man, 
and turn about is fair play. A well-digested dog stowed 
away on the inside of a Choctaw squaw does more to ad- 
vance civilization and the Christian religion than a dog 
that barks all night in a back yard and makes people get 
up out of bed and swear, don't it? And nothing is more 
nutritious than dog. Professor Huxley says that one 
pound of a dog's hind leg nourishes the vital forces more 
than a wagon-load of bread and corned beef. It contains 
more phosphorus and carbon. When dogs are alive they 
agree with men, and there is no reason why they shouldn't 
when they are dead. This nation will center upon a glo- 
rious destiny when it stops raising corn and potatoes, and 
devotes itself more to growing crops of puppies. 

" Now many ignorant people consider scalping inhuman. 
I don't. I look upon it as one of the most beneficent pro- 
cesses ever introduced for the amelioration of the suffer- 
ings of the human race. What is hair? It is an excres- 
cence. If it grows it costs a man a great deal of money 
and trouble to keep it cut. If it falls out the man be- 
comes bald and the flies bother him. What does the In- 
dian do in this emergency? With characteristic sagacity 
he lifts out the whole scalp, and ends the annoyance and 
expense. And then look at the saving from other sources. 
Professor Huxley estimates that two thousand pounds of 
the food that a man eats in a year go to nourish his hair. 
Remove that hair and you save that much food. If I had 
my way I would have every baby scalped when it is vac- 
cinated, as a measure of political economy. That would 
be statesmanship. I have a notion to organize a political 


party on the basis of baby-scalping, and to go on the 
stump to advocate it. If people had any sense I might 
run into the presidency as a baby-scalper. 

" And as for the matter of the Indians wearing rings 
through their noses I don't see why people complain of 
that Look at the advantage it gives a man when he 
wants to hold on to anything. If a hurricane strikes an 
Indian all he does is to hook his nose to a tree, and there 
he is, fast and sound. And it gives him something to rest 
his pipe on when he smokes, while, in the case of a man 
with a pug, the ring helps to jam his proboscis down, and 
to make it a Roman nose. But I look at him from a sani- 
tary point of view. The Indian suffers from catarrh. 
Now what will cure that disease ? Metal in the nose, in 
which electricity can be collected. Professor Huxley says 
that the electricity in a metal ring two inches in diameter 
will cure more catarrh than all the medicines between 
here and Kansas. The Child of Nature with wonderful 
instinct has perceived this, and he teaches us a lesson. 
When we, with our higher civilization, begin to throw 
away finger-rings and ear-rings and to wear rings in our 
noses we will be a hardier race. I am going to direct the 
attention of Congress to the matter. 

" Then take the objections that are urged to the Indian 
practice of driving a stake through a man and building a 
bonfire on his stomach. What is their idea? They want 
to hold that man down. If they sit on him they will ob- 
struct the view of him. They put a stake through him, 
and there he is secured by simple means, and if it is driven 
in carefully it may do him good. Professor Huxley says 
that he once knew a man who was cured of yellow jaun- 
dice by falling on a pale- fence, and having a sharp-pointed 
paling run into him. And the bonfire may be equally 
healthy. When a man's stomach is out of order you put a 
mustard plaster on it Why? To warm it. The red 
man has the same idea. He takes a few faggots, lights 
them, and applies them to the abdomen. It is a certain 
cure. Professor Huxley" 

" Oh, dry up about Professor Huxley ! " exclaimed 
Meigs, the storekeeper, at this juncture. Elbow Room.